


The Way We Are Now

by The_Librarian



Series: Life After Equivalence [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, After the Adventure, Alchemy, Awkward Romance, Depression, First Kiss, For Science!, Friendship, Gen, Growing Old, Growing Up, Home, Living the life, Mad Science, Military Uniforms, Romance, Shell Shock, Vignettes, military life, normality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 43,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is not ending. The monsters have been slain. Something like normality has been restored. And Edward Elric has been recommissioned as a Major under Brigadier General Mustang's command. This is what happens next.</p><p>A year in vignettes. Ed, thus language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Business as Usual

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back. Sort of. Kind of. A bit.
> 
> Y'see, this story - which follows on from The Death of Truth, The Long Walk Home and The Dog Has His Day, my previous FMA fics which you should probably read before going any further with this one to save on confusion - is not really a story at all. It's a sequence of short vignettes spread over the course of a year, detailing what life is like for everyone now they're safely back in Amestris.
> 
> There will be arcs and plots but they're fairly low-stakes, to say the least. Basically, this is simply a way of getting into the normal lives of the main characters now things have calmed down a bit. Hilarity, as they say, ensues.
> 
> All credit for the original goes, as always, to the esteemed Hiromu Arakawa and to the writers and artists who worked on the 2003 Anime. Any and all blame for subsequent inferior mucking around is entirely on my own head.
> 
> Oh, and it's just possible that Edward Elric is a magnet for trouble . . .

“SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT!” Screaming all the way, the famed and daring Fullmetal Alchemist, hero of the people, vaulted over the long table Breda and Falman had upended to use as a barricade and desperately beat out the flames that were threatening to engulf his coat. He pressed his back against the table and stared around, wild-eyed. “SERIOUSLY? FIRE-BREATH? Who the hell looks at a giant dog from hell and thinks, you know what this needs? TO BE ABLE TO BREATHE FIRE?!”

Hunkered down beside him, General Mustang favoured him with an ironic eyebrow. “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

“A simple assignment, you said! We'll just go and ask him to return those papers, you said! Nice old man, wouldn't hurt a fly, you said!”

“He was sixty-three when you put him out of the running to become a State Alchemist. I naturally assumed he would just be a white haired old academic we could charm into cooperating.”

“Oh, great! So not only is he actually a raving nutcase with a hoard of chimeras stuck in his cellar, he's got a personal reason to want to KILL ME!”

“As it happens, Dr Karnstein does come from a line of Aerugian aristocrats known for mental instability,” Falman observed from the other end of the table, “They're even reputed to have sometimes drunk the blood of their enemies.”

“ _Now_ he tells us,” Breda mumbled, fiddling nervously with his gun.

With an almighty roar, one of the hellhounds threw itself against the table. Mustang's head snapped up, closely followed by his fingers. There was a colossal detonation and the roar became a pained yelp.

All four men flinched down as jets of fire shot overhead in retaliation. “Destroy them, my children!” boomed the old man's stentorian voice from the safety of the far side of the room.

“Falman,” Mustang ordered, “See how many of those things are left.”

The grey haired lieutenant paled visibly, gulped hard then quickly stuck his head out, yanking it back just in time to avoid being singed. “Four,” he gasped, “Three over in the middle, one back with Karnstein.”

“Excellent.” Mustang adjusted his gloves. “Breda, Falman, you give covering fire. I'll take out the chimeras, Fullmetal you get to Karnstein.”

“Oh yeah. Let me tackle the axe-crazy alchemist who can kill me with a look. As usual!”

“Pretty sure he has fangs now too,” Breda mentioned unhelpfully.

“Quit whining, Fullmetal. You've tackled tougher than this.”

“Shut up and burn things, matchstick.”

For just a split second, the two alchemists smirked at each other.

Then one of Karnstien's transmutations smashed the table to bits and the attack plan went to hell.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * So, Karnstein is played by Christopher Lee (if that wasn't already blindingly obvious). This started as the whole joke . . . and then I rewatched the episode in which Ed takes the alchemy exam and would you credit it, there's a background character who is drawn to look *exactly like a bearded Christopher Lee*. I am honestly not sure what to think about that. So I just wrote it in and backed away slowly.


	2. Sleight of Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem was, he cheated well.

The men of Brigadier General Mustang’s command learned quickly that playing poker against Edward Elric was a sure-fire way to lighten their wallets.

Havoc regretted pestering the ‘new’ recruit into joining their Saturday evening game the moment he saw the expression of angelic innocence on Ed’s face as he shuffled the deck. The cool, calculated financial slaughter that followed was enough to make the captain consider giving up vice in its entirety. Having missed out on watching their little alchemist sitting through his long, uneventful train journeys, none of them were prepared for the ruthless, impassive and thoroughly dirty way he played cards.

He cheated. They all knew he did. There was absolutely no doubt about it. No one could have had such an unbreakable winning streak if they had played fair. The problem was that he cheated _well_. Even if they all knew the trick was happening, none of them could work out how it was done no matter how they tried to catch him out.

Fuery gave up almost immediately. Havoc persisted for a couple of sessions but eventually decided that unless they started playing for matchsticks, Ed was out of his league. Falman and Breda lasted the longest, both convinced that he would trip up if they kept at it. They finally accepted they weren’t going to win when they were reduced to begging for food during office hours.

Ed himself was very gracious about it. He even chipped in to buy the losers their lunch. Given how much he had won from them, he could afford to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Because . . . he would.


	3. Body Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether he wanted to or not, Ed understood Mustang's reasons.

He’d started reading up on what happened after his confrontation with Dante as soon as he’d recovered enough to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time, working his way up from the few yellowing newspapers that reached Resembool to Mustang’s hoard of official documentation. As far as he could tell, the transition from King Bradley’s absolute Military control to Mortimer Haecker’s democratic Assembly had been less a revolution and more a confusing sequence of various people running around like headless chickens.

The official story changed almost daily. At first, Bradley was a hero of the nation, tragically slain by traitors attempting a coup. Then he was a victim of power-crazed members of the Military elite who the supposed traitors were trying to expose. Then someone went and made public some of what had happened in Liore and after that the Fürher’s reputation kind of went into free fall.

In a stroke of blackly hilarious irony, the thing that finally sent public opinion over the edge was nothing to do with the atrocities at Lab 5 or the murder of all those thousands of people in Ishbal and everything to do with pictures of a half-auto-mail Frank Archer tearing his way through Central on his way to the Fürher’s mansion house. ‘Military Experiment Terrorises City!’ screamed one headline. ‘King Commissioned Chrome Killer!’ howled another. Because this had happened on people’s doorsteps, not in a far off land where they talked funny, and that meant that it mattered.

Ed was pretty sure that a lot of the evidence that connected all the illegal experiments back to Bradley was, if not actually made up, then very carefully presented. He could not quite believe that Dante got away with everything for so long by leaving incriminating papers around the place. Someone – and he could guess who – had worked very hard to get that ball rolling. But oh boy had it rolled.

The first major casualties were the Military officers and State Alchemists directly involved in those experiments – and that really did mean casualties in many cases. Apparently, if you threatened to expose the crimes of a bunch of people who could turn matter inside out, things had a tendency to get quickly out of control. Who'd have guessed?

By the time things were straightened out enough for trials to be held, the number of people still around to be charged had been cut dramatically.

The really screwed up thing was how many people didn't know about any of it. It was obvious that Dante worked hard to keep the development of the Stone well hidden but the sheer scale of it was insane. General Hakuro, storming back from the north after being soundly duped by Mustang's pretend coup, seemed to have been genuinely appalled by what had been going on under his nose. Most of the other Generals were the same, at least when it came to the taboo alchemy. They hadn't known or cared about where the red stones had come from or about what happened to prisoners they had sent for execution.

But ignorance was no defence.

All those implicated in ordering the excesses of Ishbal, or covering up for Grand, or instigating the crack-down in Liore, all of them came firmly under the scrutiny of a reinvigorated Investigations division. Ed imagined Sheska and Armstrong and Ross and the rest slaving away at all hours of the day to bring the perpetrators to book but in truth, it wasn't just them. Freed from the threat of disappearance or disgrace, a great many people started talking. Officers who had hidden what they knew or guessed for years suddenly found the courage to speak out. There was a doctor, Knox, who rolled up to Central Headquarters one day, demanded a typist and dictated page after page of details from the Eastern War that had been buried so deep even Sheska had never read them.

By the time it was all over, there were so many empty offices at Headquarters the heating costs had been halved.

And in the middle of it all, when he should have been taking full advantage of things finally going right for once and rocketing up to the top like he'd always dreamed of doing, Mustang had resigned his commission and requested a transfer to the most remote, most pointless border post available. Which caused a lot of his colleagues to question his sanity.

But Ed understood. Because no matter how much changed and no matter how many people paid for what they had done, all the names stuffed into evidence files until they spilled over stayed just that: names. Hundreds upon thousands of them, so many they ceased to mean anything. All that was left of all the lives Bradley and Dante and the rest had taken. No one was bringing them back. No one was giving their families back what they had lost.

It must have been impossible to bear, attempting politics when all you could think about was how many people you hadn't been able to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Written mainly because I have a fascination for 'what happened next' stories.  
> * Also to get Dr Knox in. Just because.


	4. Dead Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mustang maintains his position in the firearm accuracy league table.

A ragged cheer went up as Mustang picked up the pistol. He shot his staff a venomous look. “I’m a brigadier general,” he grumbled, “I should be above all this.”

“Subordinates must be aware of the strengths and weaknesses of their commanding officers as well as themselves,” Hawkeye said coolly.

“Which moron said that?”

“You did, sir. The first time you ordered us all down to the range for joint target practice.”

“Is he really that bad?” Ed asked in a whisper.

“Let me put it this way,” Breda replied in a slightly louder whisper, “He’s never exactly lived down the Pigeon Incident.”

“You like the idea of being court-martialled for sedition, Breda?” Mustang growled over his shoulder.

Hawkeye sighed. “Shut up and shoot, sir.”

Taking a deep breath, the General turned to face down the length of the concrete shed. He lifted the gun, bracing it with both hands. Another steadying breath and his finger tightened. The pistol gave a dozen barks, Mustang’s body shuddering with every shot. Hawkeye put a hand over her eyes.

The five men clustered around their commanding officer to examine the result of his efforts. Ed completely failed not to burst out laughing. “Wow, Mustang . . .” he said once he’d got a hold of himself again, “That’s . . . wow.” The shots were spread randomly across the target and, indeed, across the back wall of the range. True, one or two of the bullets had come _near_ the bulls-eye, but that was just the laws of probability.

“Then let’s see you do better, Fullmetal.” Mustang thrust the reloaded pistol challengingly at the younger alchemist.

“Yeah,” Havoc drawled, “Your turn, chief.”

Under the eyes of the soldiers, Ed accepted the weapon, holding it lightly in his auto-mail hand. Then, tossing it to his left hand and turning so fast that everyone else took a hasty step backward, he took careful aim, braced across his right arm and fired six times. Taking his fingers out of his ears, Mustang smirked. “Impatient as ever, Fullmetal.” And then he saw the target.

With considerable effort, he stopped his mouth from hanging open. Falman, Breda and Fuery had no such self-control. Hawkeye smiled, very slightly. The new holes in the target were clustered closer together around the centre, none actually through it but all much closer to it than any of Mustang’s efforts. “Where did you learn to shoot like _that_?” Fuery asked, sounding more than a little awestruck.

“Munich University,” Ed told him flatly, handing the gun to Havoc.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t tell them about learning the hard way that getting into fights without alchemy or proper auto-mail was a bad idea. He didn’t describe his brief obsession with becoming a good enough shot that, if it came to it, he would be able to put someone out of action without it being permanent. And he certainly didn’t talk about the two times he had put that practice to use.

He’d told Hawkeye, when she’d caught him grimly making Swiss cheese out of the targets on the range a few days earlier. If he was going to have to carry a pistol, he’d said, he was going to make sure he was good enough never to have to kill with it. He wasn’t sure she had entirely agreed with him but he thought she understood.

Besides. It was worth it to see the look on Mustang’s face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Inspired in equal parts by Ed's left-handed gun-play while helping Fitz Lang hunt a dragon and by the desire to poke fun at Mustang.  
> * I have no idea why I always assume Mustang should be an awful shot. The idea just stuck in my head a few years ago and never quite dislodged.


	5. Rank and File

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the business of promotions can get a bit confusing.

"How come,” Ed asked, taking his seat opposite Havoc, “you’re a captain too?”

A groan went up from the other men sitting around the mess table. Havoc glared sideways at them, poking his plate of look-it’s-just-stew-OK with a fork. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he said, a little petulantly.

“Well . . .” Ed waved his own fork. “Weren’t you just a second lieutenant back when I left? I mean, I get why Hawkeye would be a captain by now but you . . . err . . . not so much.”

Breda erupted in a coughing fit, nearly choking on his drink. Falman thumped him on the back until he stopped. Havoc growled something incomprehensible at them both. “Yeah, well,” he said, more clearly, to Ed, “things happened.”

“There were all the corruption trails after the government took over,” Fuery piped up.

“And a considerable number of ranking officers were dishonourably discharged as a result,” Falman added, “Who therefore needed replacing with officers with cleaner records.”

“And then they found out they hadn’t left enough to go around,” Breda put in hoarsely.

“Which necessitated the elevation of officers who would not have usually been considered for promotion,” continued Falman.

“They got desperate,” Fuery translated.

Havoc’s teeth ground audibly. Ed grinned at him. “So you got made a captain because everyone else got kicked out?”

Groaning, the man put his head in his hands. “No! I . . . it was a battlefield promotion, OK?”

“A what?” The finer points of the military hierarchy continued to evade Ed – he was still working on the principle of checking someone’s epilates against his own and seeing who scored highest.

“Battlefield promotion is advancement in rank during deployment,” Falman explained.

“As in the next highest ranking officer’s got a hole in his head,” Havoc granted, “Which is what happened to me.”

“You’ve been at _war_?” Ed was flabbergasted.

“ _No_!” Havoc gestured with his fork. “We were looking after a bunch of Ishbalan settlers who needed help getting out to their old homes. Got ambushed by a bunch of Bradley die-hards who seemed to think lynching the lot of us would bring the Führer back to life. The captain got his head blown off and we had to dig in. The major – this is Major Hawker – got a bullet to the leg and bumped me up just before she passed out. I got everyone out and made those maniacs regret attacking us.”

“ _How_?” Ed asked in tones of one who’d just seen a sloth do the four-minute-mile.

Havoc shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Eh, I’m no Mustang but even I can tell when someone’s only got four men and a couple of pretty good snipers. And I’m not a bad shot.”

“And when he got back, Mustang decided it’d be handy to have another friendly captain around the place.” Breda picked at his teeth, “Pulled strings and Havoc got to keep the rank.”

“Right.” Ed chewed thoughtfully on something that had once been a potato. “Hold on. If he got it like that, what was all that stuff about them getting desperate for officers?”

The three men grinned back at Ed. “ _First Lieutenant_ Havoc was only there,” said Falman with uncharacteristic relish, “because one of Hawker’s old officers had been discharged for improper conduct.”

Havoc glared daggers at the lot of them. Ed thought for a moment then shrugged, lifting his glass of water in salute. “Hey. You’ve still done more to get your rank than I ever did to get mine.”

 


	6. Restless Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying still is not comfortable when you've been wandering for so long.

Being in the city was starting to get on her nerves.

In the country, it had been easier. The fields and open spaces, the air and the wilderness, with people far and few between – out there, she could always find some quiet place to be alone with her thoughts. The world was wide enough that it never seemed like a trap.

But Central, with its teaming boulevards and rattling motor cars, was a different matter.

Noah could feel the buildings starting to close in on her. She caught herself looking over her shoulder in the street, expecting glowering policemen or worse. Every shout and horn made her flinch far out of proportion to the actual noise. The feeling of being watched nagged at the back of her neck, irrational and uncomfortable.

The worst of it was her certainty that she was imagining it. Most people barely glanced at her as she passed. In this strange city of so many different skins, she was not even slightly unusual. Not to look at. Her accent raised a few eyebrows but rarely the hostile kind. Besides. Given the company she kept, if anyone stared, it was never at her.

No. With a confidence she would have found impossible when she first woke up without her clairvoyance, she knew the oppression was only in her head. For all its many flaws, this world did not reject her as she sometimes feared it might.

But her instincts would not let her rest easy. A Romni alone in a gadjo town. The kind of situation everyone had always taught her to fear. She especially, an outsider among her own kin, never able to rely on anyone's protections. _If they knew what you were –_

What she had been.

Noah stared at the book in her hands, at the patterns and circles spread across the pages. Understanding tickled her mind, as though she could already feel the transmutation forming under her hands. Her lessons with Al drifted behind them, slipping to the surface with every symbol she recognised. It was hard, starting from the basics, slowly and methodically filling the gaps when all the while the ghosts of alchemy's highest expression haunted your dreams. But Al's gentle guidance was carrying her through the worst of it. He was a remorselessly patient teacher – Ed too, when he took the time to offer his help. Was that just because it was her? She liked to think not.

This alchemy, this science of wonders – this was the power she carried inside her now and in this world, in this city, that merely marked her out as an eccentricity. Not a monster. Not a freak. Not an outsider. Just another trainee alchemist.

Was that it? Was it that change above all else that made her want to run away? Not the fear that she would be hounded out but the awkward knowledge that she could stay there forever. That maybe, just maybe, this place of stone and sweating crowds would become her home and she would stray no more until it became her tomb as well. Never to wander, never to roam, never to look at the sky from a different angle –

Closing the book and hugging it to her winter coat, Noah quietly rose from the bench. Ed would have jumped up defiantly, thinking these thoughts. Al would have been less abrupt, more sure of his destination. But she was neither of them and never would be, so for her it was a simple decision, without ceremony. The park around her hung heavy with autumn’s final breath.

A breath of anticipation, the final shreds of the old waiting to fall and start over again.

She would stay in Central into the new year. Al was planning to remain until then and then return to Resembool. She would go with him, stay his student for as long as she could bear to remain still. And then?

Then she would see where her feet took her.


	7. The Sentimentalist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winry supposed it was romantic, just a little bit.

“But isn't it so amazing that they came back? And they really were on another planet? That's incredible! You should hear the rumours going around Headquarters! Everyone thinks they were on a mission for the State or fighting vampires in Drachma or roaming the world in search of the secrets of eternal life – no one has any real idea of what happened! If only they knew!”

Winry grinned over her cup. The scary thing about Sheska was that she didn't really like coffee that much, so while the rest of them had the excuse of excess caffeine to fall back on, she was just naturally this excitable.

“And you and Ed got together! Isn't that so romantic? A love that spanned two worlds! Reunited at last!”

“Eh . . . maybe you should lay off the romance novels Corporal Bell keeps lending you. And anyway, it's only since they've been back that we really realised that we felt that way about each other.”

“It's still romantic! You got together at a ball! That's definitely romantic!”

She shrugged. It was, she supposed, just a little. “Sneaking into Ed's barracks every other night is getting pretty old though.”

“Oh!” Sheska's mouth became a little 'o' of surprise. “You're actually doing that? I thought that was just gossip.”

“Well yeah! I've got to go back to Rush Valley sooner or later, so we're making the most of the time we've got together.”

“Oh.”

“What?” Winry frowned, putting her drink down. “Don't tell me you disapprove!"

“Oh, no, it's not that . . .” Sheska fiddled with her glasses and the cuff of her sleeve. “It just seems a bit of a shame if you have to move fast because of that. You know, not getting to savour all the moments while you have them and . . .” She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I'm sounding really silly, aren't I?”

“Oh . . .” Winry reached over and took her hands. “No, you're not. That's really sweet.” How was the best way to explain it? “We do savour it all. Honestly, we do. It's just . . .” After so long, it's hard to wait? They enjoyed it all too much to take their time? The intensity was part of the fun? “Can you imagine Ed being all romantic? With flowers and chocolates and moonlight walks?”

“Urr . . .” Sheska tapped her chin. “When you put it like that . . .”

“We've actually tried dinner out together a few times but we always end up too busy to get it to work right.”

“Oh yeah – how's that going? At the hospital?”

“It's . . . different. Seeing what happens before people come to the clinics, giving them advice. And kinda hard, seeing people with injuries we can't actually work with. I mean, I've got ideas on how I could, but it's all theoretical and there are still some wounds that will always be impossible to fit auto-mail to. It'll be nice to keep working with some of the surgeons there though.”

“So you're definitely going to move up to Central?”

Shrugging, Winry picked up her cup again. “Probably. I'll need to find somewhere to set up the clinic, but Dominic's pretty determined to kick me out now. Told me on the phone the other night that he's changing the locks so I can't get back into his shop. Think he was joking but you get the idea.”

“You'd just pick them anyway! Um. Will you move in with Ed?”

“Hah! Now who's talking about moving fast!” She stopped and thought about it for a second. “I . . . guess. It would make sense. Ed can't afford a place of his own yet, not to buy, not on his own.”

“He would if they'd agreed to that back-pay request General Mustang tried to put through for him. I still can't believe that got blocked. Although . . . the way Colonel Fiat talked about it, I think there were a lot of people who thought the General was just doing it to try and score a point.”

“Yeah, well.” Winry remembered the tantrum Ed had thrown when _he_ heard about it. He _really_ didn't like the idea of getting something for nothing. “It doesn't matter. We'll work something out.”

Behind her glasses, Sheska was going misty eyed again. “I'm sure you will! After everything you've both done, I don't think there's anything that can stop you!”

For an instant, Winry imagined her and Ed on the cover of one of those dumb books, side by side, wrench and blade drawn, ready to charge into battle against the awesome demonic forces of the Central property market. “You know, I think you're right.”


	8. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is absolutely no innuendo in a flower. Except when there is.

“Who do you think I should give it to?” Al asked, twirling the flower between thumb and forefinger. An Autumn Rose, one of the last for the year, it was the most luxurious shade of red he had ever seen. The old flower-seller had piled a whole bunch of them up on her cart and he just hadn't been able to resist.

Ed, who had had a small fit over the prices and probably thought he was an easily swindled sap, grunted noncommittally. “I don't know. Gracia maybe?” He was not really paying attention. He’d got his pocket watch out and kept flicking it open and closed again. Al recognised the signs of an alchemist deep in thought.

“Maybe. But a rose like this . . . I think it's more for romance than family.”

Ed's brain visibly pulled a handbrake turn. “Whatthe – _Al_?!”

Al grinned as his brother looked up at him like he'd just grown an extra head. “What? You and Winry finally got together. Can't I think about it too?”

“Well – yeah . . . I guess. Uh . . .” Ed shoved a hand through his hair. “Who were you thinking about? Wait, Noah?”

Al chuckled and sighed. “No, brother. Noah's a wonderful person but I don't think she wants that and I'm sure she wouldn't want it with me.”

A shadow passed across Ed's face. “Oh. Right. Um, so, who?”

“I don't know,” Al admitted, “That's the problem. I mean, there's the secretary on the front desk at Military Headquarters who always blushes when I come in. She seems kind of sweet.”

“Uh – oh yeah. She does, doesn’t she?” Ed said it in a way that meant he had never even considered the connection before. “Yeah – well, I'm sure she's very nice.” Which meant he didn't have a clue but was going to go along with it because that's what Al thought.

“And then there was the boy I met at the Prime Minister's ball. Mika. He's the son of one of the Cretian diplomats and –”

“Wh-wh-wait!” Ed slammed to a stop and caught hold of Al's arm. “Al – do you like _boys_?”

Al looked at him, slightly confused. “I have to chose?”

“I – well –” He frowned. “Most people do.”

“Most people chose someone they love and want to spend their life with.”

“Eh, not always. Look at Mustang. Guy smarmed his way through half the girls in Central: pretty sure he wasn’t looking to settle down with any of ‘em.”

“That’s true . . .” Al looked thoughtfully along the street. “Gee, brother. What do you think he _was_ looking for?”

Ed went beetroot and spluttered unintelligibly, until he saw Al smiling again. “Oh, ha ha.” He sighed and punched Al lightly on the shoulder. “Al, you can give roses to whoever you like as long as you’re happy. Just . . . I’m not gonna be pleased if anyone hurts you.”

“I can look after myself, Ed.”

“I know. I’m just saying – hey!”

Al hugged him tight for a second then let him go. “Thanks, brother.”

“Yeah, well.” He coughed and plunged his hands into his pockets. “So . . . the son of a diplomat, eh?”

“Yep.”

“Is he . . . urr . . . what’s he like?”

“He’s nice. Interesting. I don’t think he likes being in Amestris much though.”

“Sure you’d change that.”

“Heh. Maybe. I don’t know. We’ve had coffee a couple of times but . . .”

“Is he pretty?”

“Ed!”

“I’m just asking. That’s the kind of thing you ask about isn’t it? So is he?”

“He’s . . . yes, he’s very pretty.”

“There, that wasn’t too hard was it?”

“I’m going to regret telling you any of this aren’t I?”

“I’m making no promises.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * On the off chance an explanation for this is needed . . . essentially, Al is very hard to peg on sexuality given that he's an eleven year old (mentally) throughout much of the series and doesn't really seem to go through puberty at all for fairly obvious reasons involving possessing a suit of armour at the time. In the end, I just went for what felt right.  
> * Regarding Amestris' attitude to non-straight sexuality more generally, I take the view that since 1) it's non-Abrahamic and 2) it was run by someone who had an interest in drafting soldiers from the entire population, it is officially much more liberal on the matter than any equivalent state of the era in the real world. That probably varies wildly on the ground with actual people, but overall, I don't think it would be as much of a big deal as it would be elsewhere.  
> * These issues may or may not be explored later.


	9. Family Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn't meant to belong.

Ed hadn’t meant to become attuned to the daily routine of Mustang’s office. He was perfectly content with the way his research necessitated spending a good deal of time in various libraries and that most of the rest of his work had to be done in a broom-cupboard sized room three doors up the corridor. The quiet isolation suited him fine. But the smell of coffee permeating the air when he’d reported to Hawkeye that first day had been too enticing. Before he’d realised what was happening, he’d fallen into the habit of joining the rest of Mustang’s staff for their early morning brew, the one they had in the half-hour before the bastard General himself slouched into work. Since Ed had quickly concluded that a just-woken-up Mustang made an all-too tempting target, he had taken to perching on one of the desks while checking through the papers he was planning to ambush his superior with. That this gave him a chance to hear the latest gossip was pure coincidence. He didn’t really care if Havoc had blown his latest date or if Breda had managed to pull off a particularly audacious scam, even if both were kinda funny and even if he did have the occasional hundred cenz riding on the outcome of one or the other.

And it was only natural that he should sit next to them to eat his lunch, when he remembered to go down to the mess at the right time, that is. After all, he didn’t really know anyone outside of Mustang’s office, apart from Lieutenant Ross and Danny Brosh. He didn’t really take much notice of their conversation, usually having his nose stuck in a book or a file, but with them filling up the rest of the table, he knew he wouldn’t have to worry too much about being interrupted by a gawking private or some ambitious State Alchemist.

And if he had to bring along reports at the end of the day, when he was at his worst and Mustang seemed to be at his best, surely it was only natural that he should want to grouse at an audience, both before and after the inevitable arched eyebrow-, smug smirk- and sarcastic retort-filled interview. They might not have been the most sympathetic audience but they did at least understand why he got pissed off at their boss.

He looked up over the rim of his coffee-mug and grinned evilly at the sight of Mustang sidling into the outer office, eye half-shut, hair not brushed straight yet. The General walked zombie-like towards the inner door, barely giving the assembled and two-fifths saluting men a grunt of acknowledgement. Ed put down his mug and shuffled his highly technical papers in anticipation. At the rustling, Mustang stopped and turned a Cyclopean glower on them all. “Here,” he muttered, tossing a bundle of envelopes onto Breda’s desk, “Invitations. Attendance compulsory and I will light my stove with anyone who shows up late or drunk.” With that, he kicked open his door and disappeared through it, Hawkeye’s stoic ‘good morning, sir’ drifting out as it closed again.

Since he was the nearest, Ed was the one who picked up the unexpected gift. He was surprised to find his name printed on the topmost letter. “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked no one in particular, handling the bundle as if it might go off at the least provocation.

“Invites, chief,” Havoc explained, heaving himself away from the wall he had been leaning nonchalantly against and plucking the rest of the letters from Ed’s grip, “New Year’s party at the Hughes’ house. Always invites us all.” He doled out the envelopes, tucking his own into his jacket.

Ed took his, opened it and read the home-made card inside. He supposed Gracia had sent it with Mustang for convenience, that she’d just bundled them together because the General would see them all at work.

Still . . . and as much as he liked working on his own . . . it _was_ sort of nice to think that he might actually be count as part of the group now.

 


	10. Invitation Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maes would have laughed at him.

“Uh, Mrs Hughes? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Gracia turned to find Alphonse standing awkwardly in the kitchen door, his shirt splattered with colour from standing too close to Elisia's latest energetic painting project. She smiled at him. “Of course you can.”

He returned her smile nervously and came a little way into the room. It was still quite strange seeing him out of that ridiculous armour. He seemed smaller and larger all at once, physically less massive but emotionally enormous, telegraphing his every feeling to the world. Although perhaps that was just because she was used to dealing with people who kept their feelings well under control, no matter the circumstances.

“Winry and me were talking,” Alphonse began, playing with his hands, “About the New Years party? We wondered . . . it's probably too much trouble with everyone who's already coming but . . . would you mind at all if we invited a few more people?”

“Of course not!”

“It’s not going to be a problem? With food and space and everything – we don’t want to –”

She held up her hand to cut him off before he started giving a full run down of the details why it was a bad idea. “Al. I really don’t mind. In fact, the more the merrier. This house is huge enough that a couple more people aren’t going to fill it up and as for food – I can barely keep you and Winry from cooking every meal so I think we’ll manage!”

Alphonse's relief was palpable, which he must have realised because he gave her the most sheepish look imaginable. “Thank you,” he said, sounding like he meant it with every fibre of his being. He almost certainly did, even though saying yes was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh come here.” Gracia bustled over and gave him a hug, unable to let him just stand there looking as if he had expected her to say no. Maes would have laughed at him for it. Maes would probably have made the offer before Alphonse could ask.

Ed would not have relaxed into the hug but his younger brother always did. No wonder, all those years stuck in that horrible armour. “I know this isn't your home but it is _a_ home. And I think that if there are people who you want to invite here, then they are people worth knowing.”

She felt him smile and moved him back to arms length to get a proper look. That was better. “Now let's go find that writing paper again. We can catch the last post if we work fast.”


	11. Plan of Campaign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye has things under control.

“With the addition of camp beds to the guest rooms currently occupied by Miss Rockbell and Miss Roma and Alphonse, we can accommodate the parties from Brina and Rush Valley. That leaves the small guest room free for Mrs Rockbell. Another camp bed can be installed in Elisia's room for Master Thomas and one further in the master bedroom for his mother.” Hawkeye's swagger stick tapped across the floor-plan. “The lounge can then be rearranged to accommodate Colonel Armstrong, and Mr Curtis if circumstances change and he is able to make it after all. With the exception of this last item, sleeping arrangements will be finalised by ten hundred hours on New Year's Eve, at which point we will expect all those staying over here to have arrived.

“Moving on to the party preparations themselves: cooking of the evening meal will need to commence no later than fourteen hundred hours, so lunch will be a cold collation prepared the previous day. I recommend enlisting Colonel Armstrong's assistance with this as he is privy to several versatile canapé recipes that have been passed down his family for generations.

“Decorations will be installed at sixteen hundred hours sharp, New Years Eve. Captain Havoc will present himself with Lieutenants Breda and Falaman, Master Sergeant Fuery and Warrant Officer Bloch fifteen minutes prior to this in order to carry out this task. I will carry out a check at seventeen hundred hours to ensure that everything has been finished satisfactorily.

“Mild alcoholic beverages will be laid out on the dinning room sideboard no earlier than eighteen twenty. Any member of the Military party caught imbibing before this will be severely reprimanded.

“There will be a strict no-entry zone established around the kitchen from fifteen hundred hours to prevent any snacking. This will apply to children, dogs, non-culinary asset Elrics and all Military personnel. Prescribed snacks will be provided in the lounge by myself from seventeen ten pending a satisfactory arrangement of the decorations.

“The evening meal will commence at eighteen thirty hours. All members of the party will be expected to be present in a suitable state ten minutes ahead of the first dish being served. Dress code is informal but I will reserve the right to ensure that everyone is presentable and will be making spot-checks to ensure this continues.

“The following will not be tolerated at table: explicit language, explicit gestures, raucous stories, alchemic one-upmanship, ignition cloth, ball games, cigarettes, auto-mail duels, and using a cheese knife without due care and attention. Those present _will_ serve their neighbours where appropriate and _will_ pass the condiments in a timely fashion.

“Gift opening is restricted until one half hour after the end of the evening meal or twenty hundred hours, whichever comes sooner. Anyone caught opening their gifts prior to the allotted time will forfeit said gifts until such time as they have made amends with extra clearing up duties.

“The children will be expected to be in bed by twenty-one thirty. At twenty-two hundred hours, stronger alcoholic drinks may be served provided that standards of behaviour have been maintained up until that point. The party will then continue in an orderly fashion until oh one thirty on New Year's Day, at which time all non-resident guests will depart to their respective homes. Cars have been arranged for those who reside a significant distance from here and drivers have been designated. Said drivers will be forbidden from partaking of strong drink throughout the evening. Festivities will conclude no later than oh one forty-five.

“Now, before we move on to the specific travel arrangements for the guests arriving in Central over the next few days, are there any questions?”

Al, Winry and Gracia exchanged glances. “Uh, no, Captain,” Al said, “It sounds like you have this pretty well under control.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I'm sorry. In a totally not sorry kind of way. The image just made me giggle too much.


	12. Reintroductions #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends bring their own rewards.

“Edward Elric! It is so good to see you alive and well!”

How did he do it? That was the only thing that went through Ed’s head as Alex Louis Armstrong’s massive arms enfolded him. The guy was what, eight feet tall? How the _hell_ did he come out of nowhere like that?

Pink blotches filled his vision as the air was crushed from his lungs. “Urk!” he managed to gasp, “N-nice to see you . . . again . . . Colonel.”

The former Strong-Arm Alchemist’s grip released and Ed dropped back to the ground, taking great, whooping breaths. “Please!” Armstrong thundered, moustache twitching as he beamed, “I’m not in the army any more, Edward. Call me Alex!”

“Sh-sure . . . urrr . . .”

Ed’s eyes travelled past the giant to the altogether smaller figure standing behind him. Rose Thomas was wrapped up in a thick overcoat, her curiously coloured hair still worn long. She looked healthier than he remembered. A little boy stood next to her, his hand in hers, his expression conveying utter awe at the shrine to ironwork that was the Greater Central Station. Ed wangled his fingers in a nervous little wave. “Err . . . hi Rose.”

The girl – the _woman_ – smiled back at him, just as nervously. “Hello Edward,” she said, “Say hello to Edward, Tawny.”

The little boy immediately adopted the aspect of shy children everywhere, head bowed, eyes peeking out warily from under a thatch of dark hair. “’Ello.”

Ed got down on his haunches, so that he could see more directly into those two bright eyes. He stuck out his flesh hand. After a moment, a much smaller hand met it and they shook. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, “I’m Ed.” He heard a sound from behind him that could only have been Armstrong trying not to burst into tears of joy at the sight.

Standing, he glanced back at Rose. She was smiling properly now. He grinned and shrugged. “You look well.”

“And you.” She shook her head wordlessly. “You . . . do too.”

Another sob echoed down from the vicinity of Armstrong. Ed rolled his eyes. If they didn’t get moving, they’d probably have a poetic outburst that would have the whole station staring at them. “Come on.” He jerked his head towards the entrance. “I’ve got a car waiting and Gracia said to bring you over as soon as you arrived. You’re probably all hungry after the journey . . .”

He hesitated, then crooked his arm, as he’d seen Mustang do whenever the slimy bastard wanted to get some woman to come near enough to grope. Or, to put it slightly more ‘properly’, as a gentleman was supposed to do when escorting a lady. Rose looked at him in incomprehension for a second then slipped her free arm around his elbow. Together, in a line, with Armstrong trailing moist-eyed behind them, man, woman and child walked out the station.


	13. Reintroductions #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the destination, it's the journey.

“I hate trains.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t bring so much luggage.”

“I’m not going to leave important research behind when I could be getting on with it.”

“This is meant to be a _holiday_.”

“Have you _seen_ the other candidates for the Marston Exhibition? I’ve got a dozen arrays to finalise before I’m even close to being ready to compete at that level –”

“Ruuussseeell. It’s _New Year_. In _Central_.”

“So what?”

“Excuse me.” Ed was right, Al decided. The Tringhams did look far more alike now. Fletcher was rapidly coming close to matching his willowy brother for height and looks, the pudgy little kid long since gone even if the funny hat with the earflaps remained. Russell himself was as poised and elegant as he had ever been; the faint shadows under his eyes the only hint of previous illness. His hair fell across his face as he turned to frown at Al. Fletcher craned his neck to see as well.

It took them a few seconds to twig. Al smiled inwardly at that, imagining how they must see him: a tall young man with long sandy hair pulled into a ponytail, a coat slung carelessly over his shoulder. But he knew his face hadn’t changed as much as the rest of him and wasn’t at all surprised to see Fletcher’s face quickly break into a grin of recognition.

“Al?” Russell wondered, “Wow . . . you’ve . . . grown.”

“Ed still hasn’t forgiven me for it, either,” he joked, “You need a hand with those?” He nodded at the two bulky cases Russell was holding.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Good journey?” Al asked, as they redistributed the luggage.

“Yes,” Fletcher said brightly.

“No,” Russell grumbled.

“Sounds familiar,” he chuckled, “Don’t worry. We can get a cab so we won’t have to walk very far.”

“So, Al . . .” Fletcher said as they set off in procession for the taxi rank, “You’re, err . . . you’re OK?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Al shifted the case he was carrying. “I’m fine. We’re all fine.” Which was amazing in itself, he had to admit. ‘Elric’ was hardly a name that had associated with peace, contentment and the joys of life in recent years. “What about you two?”

“We’re . . .”

“Fine.”

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

Fletcher bit his lip. Russell grunted. “Look, Alphonse . . .” he began, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but do you really want us at this party? We’re . . . we’re not really . . . close, I mean, we’ve met each other, what, four times? That’s hardly . . .”

Al raised his eyebrows. The two botanic alchemists were shuffling their feet like people embarrassed at having done something very foolish. He shook his head, amazed at them both. “This party’s for everyone we know, everyone who helped us. You helped us, so you’re invited.”

“Anyway,” he added, hefting the suitcase again, “Winry, Mrs Hughes, Captain Hawkeye and me were up all night organising it all. We even got brother to promise not to pick a fight with anyone. You can’t let us down after all the effort _that_ took.”

 


	14. Reintroductions #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunshine and coal have more in common than you'd think.

Pinako Rockbell stepped onto the platform and discovered that Central was as noisy and smelly as it had ever been. Sniffing distastefully, she pulled her hat down sharply on her head and set off for the station exit, her small case bumping against her leg in time to the tapping of her walking stick.

She got as far as the main concourse before she saw who was waiting for her.

He stood underneath one of the archways, rigid and straight-backed, a greatcoat covering his uniform. At that distance, his eye-patch merged with his hair and the night falling behind him, making it look as though his head was only half there. He made no move to approach her, although he must have seen her immediately.

Setting her jaw, Pinako made her way towards him.

There had been a time when she had openly despised the man and all the mindless military automatons he represented. But that was before she had met him properly, before she had understood that he hated himself far more than she ever could have. Before she had seen the lengths he would go to for absolution.

There were three men in the world Pinako Rockbell was certain would take a bullet to the heart for her granddaughter. Two of them were young and scarred and golden as the sun. The other was far older than he looked, had been wounded far deeper than the loss of an eye and was as black as the heart of a lump of coal.

They didn’t say anything to each other as they met. Mustang simply offered a hand and she gave him her bag. Then, side by side, they walked to the waiting car.

 


	15. Reintroductions #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paninya is incorrigible.

“Holy molasses!”

Winry exchanged a puzzled glance with Noah and crossed the room to where Paninya was standing with the door half-open, staring out along the corridor. Budging her friend aside, she stuck her head out to look.

A very sleepy looking Al was just going into the bathroom, dressed in only his underpants, a towel slung across his shoulder, hair cascading loose around his face.

Winry looked sideways at Paninya. The other woman was grinning ear to ear. “ _That_ is seriously the same kid who clumped around in that armour all those years and then turned back into a shrimpy little eleven year old?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hot _damn_! Please tell me he's into auto-mail.”

Winry buried her face in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * As usual, no excuse beyond it seeming funny at the time . . . not sure it still does but there we are.


	16. Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miracles do happen.

Alphonse Elric had always had one brother. One impossible, introverted, brilliant, determined, compassionate brother who had always been there for him, and for whom, he had always tried to be there as well.

But it was only as he looked round at that first New Year party at Gracia’s that he began to truly appreciate just how many sisters he had accumulated.

There was Winry, of course. Sunny, resourceful, tireless, kind. Probably the only person in the world who could actually out-shout Ed. Who knew what they had suffered and had always been there for them, never making their mistakes, never judging them.

There was Elisia, who they had helped bring into the world and who made Al’s heart break to think that she would never really know her father. Still growing, she was bright, inquisitive and fascinated by everything around her.

Al had to look away as her face lit up at the tiny fireworks blooming from under the General’s hands, the memory of another little sister leaving a lump in his throat.

There was Rose, a distant, older sister with who he had a bond of shared pain more than any real intimacy. But he admired her none the less for that. She had suffered so much but still carried on, determined to follow that long ago advice to walk on her own legs.

There was Paninya, a sort of step-sister, adopted from Winry’s extended family. Although, if he were honest with himself, it would probably have been more accurate to say she had adopted them. Always eager to wind Ed up, constantly revelling in the inevitable chases, energetic, exasperating.

Al could only grin at the sight of her giving way with exaggerated despair in an arm wrestling competition with Tawny, Rose clapping her hands delightedly at her son’s triumph.

There was Sheska, who would probably have counted as a fussy aunt if she had been older. Perpetually nervous but so, so desperate to prove herself. More than a little bit like Ed if you took away the temper, the courage and the sharp edges. And definitely a little sweet on him.

And there was Noah. Shy, quiet, graceful Noah, who had helped them adjust to an alien world, who had been as much an outsider in it as they had been. Who was now as much a part of this crazy family as any of the rest and glowed with happiness because of it.

Al sighed contentedly and leant back against the wall, watching the room through half-closed eyes. He had no idea how it has happened – or, more accurately, no idea how he had never noticed before – but he couldn’t help but be happy at the discovery.

After all, recovering one brother was a success. Gaining six sisters as well was verging on the miraculous.


	17. Complete Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Auntie Pinako understand one another perfectly.

“So, Ed. You and Winry.” Translation: _my granddaughter's told me everything, pipsqueak, don't bother denying it._

“Uh. Yeah . . . ?” Meaning: _oh shit. I wasn't supposed to ask your permission first, was I? No, that would be dumb. And she started it anyway!_

“Well now. There's a thing.” _Calm down you idiot. I wasn't born yesterday and you two aren't exactly subtle._

“Yeah.” _I still can't believe this is happening and really don't want it to stop._

“I trust you're being sensible.” _Because while I know you're both extremely intelligent young people who are fully aware of the facts of life, I also consider you to have the combined common sense of a horse fly in heat._

“Wha – of course we are!” _We're not morons damnit! We know what bits go where and what you need to put in between for safety!_

“Glad to hear it.” _I'm still going to worry about you. That's what relatives are for._

“You don't . . . mind, do you?” _Not that I need you approval but . . . I kind of would like it if you're offering._

“Good grief. Twenty years of doing whatever came into your heads and you start asking permission now?” _You honestly think I'd be this blasé if I weren't happy for you?_

“Yeah, well. Just checking.” _Thank you._

“Just look after her, short-stuff. That's all I ask.” _Because I won't be around forever._

“I will.” _Because it would never occur to me to do anything else._

“And let her look after you too while you're at it.” _Someone's got to._

 


	18. Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be afraid. Be very afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lest it need stating, Tawny is my name (with no basis in canon) for Rose's son.

“Hi Tawny!”

The boy looked up. Elisia smiled at him, all her teeth showing. “'Ello,” he said shyly, hiding behind his mop of black hair.

“Mom says you're going to be staying for a week, isn't that great? How is it living out in the desert? It must be great having Mr Armstrong around all the time, he's so funny!”

Tawny considered. “It's OK. He gives everyone piggy back rides all the time and makes mom laugh.”

“I bet! Did he really build all the buildings in your town?”

“Some, yeah.”

“It's so cool what he can do! Don't you think? Just punches the ground and WHOOSH! He makes something! Usually something that looks like him too!”

Yes, Tawny agreed, it was cool. Very cool. “M' gonna ask him to teach me to do that.”

“Really?!” Elisia's eyes went wide and shiny with the idea. “That'll be amazing! I bet you'll be great! You think you'll get all big and musclely as well? It must be great to be that strong even when you can't do alchemy!”

Tawny pondered the notion solemnly. He had often thought that himself, especially when Jon Dorn from school stole his bag and ate all his sweets. There was definitely a lot to be said for the idea of being able to pick people up like their weighed nothing.

Elisia sat down next to him and stretched out on the rug, pointing her feet at the fire. Tawny ran his favourite toy truck back and forwards a couple of times, feeling that he was perhaps not keeping up his side of the conversation very well. Although Elisia didn't seem to mind all that much.

“You think if I asked him he'd make me a tree house? Actually, I might ask Al instead. Mr Armstrong would probably turn it into a statue of himself. I don't think Al would though. Ed would put a big ugly dragon on it, wouldn't he? Oh! Maybe Miss Noah can do it! She's Al's apprentice, you know!”

Tawny did know. He thought Miss Noah was very pretty and had paid attention when they had been introduced.

“I'm sure by the time you've grown up enough to learn alchemy she'll know all about it and won't mind teaching you at all.”

Tawny scowled at the fire and gave his truck an especially hard roll. He was old enough to learn  _ now _ , thank you very much. Even if mom did not think so. At all.

“Hey, Tawny . . . ?” He glanced up to see Elisia frowning seriously. ”Do you remember your dad?” she asked

He shook his head. He was not even sure he had had a dad in the first place. If he had, mom never spoke about him.

“That's sad. I do. Kinda. Sometimes I think I'm forgetting but then I look at all the photos he took and I remember. Only . . . I don't really remember anything from New Year. I think I should but . . .”

She shrugged and chewed her lip. Tawny put his truck down and patted her on the arm. “I think we should go sneak gingerbread out of the kitchen while Miss Hawkeye's not lookin'.”

Elisia brightened up immediately. “Oh! We couldn't do that – she'd been so cross and mommy would be too – only they're both setting the table, aren't they – so they won't notice! And I'm really hungry. Yeah, OK – don't worry, if we get caught I'll say it was my idea. I'm older so they'll just think I'm leading you astray, like those people in the paper. It must be fun to write for the papers, mustn't it? Just writing all day long and making stuff up all the time. Oh! And if we go through the hall, I don't think anyone would notice. Come on.”

She got up. Tawny pushed the truck carefully to the edge of the fireplace and did as well. Elisia put a finger on her lips with exaggerated care and stuck out her hand. He took it. Her grip was a bit sticky but he didn't mind that much.

Hand in hand, they stole silently out of the sitting room.

 


	19. Aggravated Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed is not good at friendship.

"No.”

“Yes.”

“No! Why should I?”

“Brother…”

“But –”

“Ed. Go and apologise _right now_ or I will _make_ you.”

Grouching under his breath about treacherous siblings, Ed stomped furiously upstairs. It was all completely unfair. He’d been pointing out a mistake – _and_ a really stupid one – that was _helping_! What was he supposed to do, pussyfoot around putting the guy straight? He was nineteen and a working alchemist! He should be able to take constructive criticism! And it really had been constructive! It wasn’t _his_ fault if Tringham was so highly strung he went off and sulked if someone so much as touched his arrays! He was on the verge of turning round and going straight back down when the image of being thoroughly trounced by his little brother in front of everyone he knew sprang into his head, rendered in exquisite details right down to the exact shape of Mustang’s smirk.

Grumbling slightly louder, he resumed his march upwards.

Tringham was hunched over the desk. He looked up with irritation when Ed barged into the bedroom. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah.” Ed glowered and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Tringham threw down his pen. “Well?” he snapped, “What is it?”

“I’m . . . I came to . . . I’m sorry, OK?” The words ground out grudgingly. “I’m sorry I said your damn array was wrong.”

“It was.” Tringham flicked the papers he had been working on. “You were right. It was a stupid mistake.”

“Yeah, but . . . I . . . was a bit . . .”

“Insulting? Condescending? I’m sure I’ve got a lexicon around here somewhere, if you need to look up the right word.”

Resisting the urge to storm straight back out again, Ed gritted his teeth and continued. “Rude. I was frickin’ rude, OK?!” Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to speak calmly. “Look, Russell . . . I’ve had about three actual friends in my life and two of them are dead, one of them’s Winry and none of them ever wanted my help with alchemy.” He shrugged expressively. “I’m not the kind of guy you want to come to for friendly advice.”

For a long moment, Tringham just stared at him. Ed felt his ears growing hot. He was just about to try backtracking when the other man broke the silence.

“You honestly think this is about you being rude?” Russell asked wonderingly, “Ed . . . are you really that . . . don’t you know who you are?”

Ed scowled at him, completely lost. “What?”

“You were the youngest ever State Alchemist. You joined the Alchemy Programme when you were _twelve_. You were a hero by the time you were fifteen – hell, a martyr by the time you were eighteen! You are famous for being one of the most innovative and naturally talented alchemists of the modern age. _People tried to break into the State archives to get at your notes_.” He shook his head slowly. “You are . . . there are young alchemists out there who would give anything in the world to have your skill and to do the things you’ve done. Do you have any idea what it feels like when _you_ say my work is rubbish?”

Ed gaped at Russell, utterly dumbfounded. “Oh,” he managed after a few moments. Because he _hadn’t_ thought, not once, that that might be the reason Tringham had reacted so badly. He knew how he was viewed by the country at large, was painfully aware of it in fact, and hated it. The fame he had enjoyed when he had been a teenager now felt oppressive and undeserved. He shied away from it, especially with all the people in the government – and outside it – wanting to use him as some sort of totem for their various agendas. But he had never considered that it changed the way people took his words. Quite the opposite, he had been slightly proud of his ability to completely undermine everyone’s ideas about the ‘hero of the people’ every time he opened his mouth. It was one of the few ways he really had of striking back against the great golden _thing_ his reputation had been built into while he had been gone.

And now to find out that someone who he had thought knew him better than most had been so badly stung by criticism just because it came from _his_ mouth?

He remembered, so very long ago, reading a letter written by a teenage alchemist who admitted to respecting him and even looking up to him. He looked at the pale, willowy young man sitting opposite and, for the first time, really saw how Russell was looking back. A mix of pride and trepidation hovered behind the level stare, as if the guy was half expecting to have to jump and wasn’t quite sure which way. Suddenly, it came slamming home just how _young_ Tringham was. He hadn’t fought monsters or been to other worlds, or lost an arm trying to bring back the dead. The single year between them might as well have been twenty – hell, it might as well have been a lifetime.

Ed slumped against the doorjamb and pressed his hands to his face.

A creak told him that Russell had risen from the chair. Indecisive footsteps came across the carpet. “Ed?”

“I’m a frickin’ idiot,” he muttered, the admission muffled by his fingers.

“Am I supposed to argue with that?” Tringham asked, with only a trace of the usual acid.

“No.” Ed hauled himself upright and looked the other man square in the eye. “I’m a thick-headed jerk. It’s a fact. Ask anybody. Hell, Mustang ‘ll give you a whole speech on it if you want him to. Or even if you don’t want him to. Or even if nobody even says anything about it.”

“I had noticed he seems a little . . . fond of his own voice,” Russell agreed.

“Hah! The guy _loves_ the sound of his own voice.” Ed trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I really am sorry. You do good work, Russell. Really good. I’m just . . .”

“A thick-headed jerk.”

A slow grin spread over Ed’s face. “Right.”

Russell sighed and smoothed down his shirt. “I overreacted,” he admitted, “I do that. A lot. I’m trying to grow out of it but . . .” Abruptly, he stuck out his hand. “Look, we’ve been on the wrong foot with each other since we met. We’ll probably never exactly like each other but for what it’s worth, I’m glad I know you and . . . and it means a lot to me that you even _look_ at my work.”

Very gently, Ed took the offered hand in his auto-mail and shook solemnly, ignoring the slight tremor in Tringham’s expression and the way he reddened when he realised which hand he had been reaching for. “And I’m really glad you were there to haul my ass out of that snowdrift.”

Russell laughed, the tension on his face giving way to a smile. “You’d never have frozen to death. You’re too stubborn.”

Ed shot him a mock glare, then slapped him on the back. “Come on. I’m not missing the food because you’re making cheap jokes.”

“You think that was cheap? I haven’t even told you about the old clothes of Fletcher’s that we were going to give you. They’re from when he was nine but I’m sure they’d be just your size.”

“I can still wipe the floor with you, y’jerk!”

“You could _never_ wipe the floor with me!”

“ _Not_ how I remember it!”

“It’s all those blows to the head, they’ll do that.”

“You want a blow to the head? I’ll give you a blow to the head!”

They kept it up all the way downstairs, doing their best to hide their broad grins from each other.

 


	20. Full Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to come clean.

“Hey, everyone? Sorry – um, brother wants me to do this because he says it'll sound better coming from me. He's probably going to interrupt every other word anyway, so –”

“I will not! I'm going to sit right here and – sorry Al.”

“Any-way. We want to thank Gracia for letting us invite everyone and all of you for coming. It really does mean a lot to us. As you know, me and Ed have had a pretty crazy life – except, no, that's actually the point really. You _don't_ all know about that. I mean, you know it's been crazy but you don't know the details. You've all been with us at some point while we were travelling around the country or being part of the Military or fighting the Führer but except for Winry and Noah and Aunty Pinako, we haven't told anyone all of it. 

“And I guess a lot of you aren't going to believe it. I'm not sure I believe some of it. And most of you will know bits of it, or will have worked them out, or – well, yeah. But we want to actually tell you because we know we've kept most of you in the dark one way or the other and that's unfair. You've helped us, been there for us when we needed it and we would probably not be here if you hadn't. We owe you and want to repay you. Equivalent exchange. 

“So this is our way of starting to do that. We – OK, brother – _I'm_ going to tell you everything. It's a long story and like I say, you might not believe all of it. And, uh, the reason Mr Fuery and Mr Bloch have been poking the walls and unscrewing the skirting boards all evening is because some of it probably shouldn't go beyond this room. You'll understand which bits I mean. We just wanted to be sure no one we didn't trust was listening in.

“It started when we were kids. Although I guess it really started a long time before that but for us, it started when we were just a couple of kids in Resembool, reading the books our Dad had left behind. Those books taught us the philosophy of alchemy, the basic principle that underlies it – that humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. And in those days, we really believed that to be the world's one and only truth . . .”


	21. The View From The Gallery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a weird life.

In deference to there being small children and Hawkeye present, Havoc took himself to the corner of the street to have his last cigarette of the day. He puffed contentedly, savouring the crisp night air. After the heat of the party and the not inconsiderable amount of weak ale that had been drunk, the chill was a welcome change of pace, especially with the knowledge that a warm bed awaited him.

An empty bed to be sure but welcome nevertheless.

As he smoked, he found himself thinking that once upon a time, his life had been pretty normal. He’d been paid to serve his country, been able to live with people ordering him here and there, lift that crate, drive that car, shoot those scary foreigners. All right, it had not been a great life – he had been dirt poor most of the time, his love life had been non-existent and people had kept ordering him to shoot those scary foreigners – but it had been normal. Now he was a captain – a freaking captain! When he’d never wanted to be more than a first lieutenant at most – who’d helped overthrow King Bradley, who’d associated with the punk kid now heralded as a national hero, who’d actually led the famous Northern Uprising in a floppy black wig and a uniform two sizes too small. Who still had no love life to speak of but what-could-ya-do?

Havoc had never planned to be part of a revolution. He had barely planned to become a career soldier. 'Anything but a green grocer' had been the rough extent of the strategy. But there it was. And here he was. Perfectly at home in a world where there were other worlds, mad immortal alchemists, transmuted human-monsters and a dozen other things that gave a man imaginative nightmares.

Somewhere along the line, possibly roughly around the time he had been drafted into Mustang's staff, 'weird shit' had become the rule rather than the exception. Somewhere along the line, Havoc had stopped minding that so much.

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see the little old lady, Pinako Rockbell, coming up to the gate behind him. She was drawing on a long-stemmed pipe, the bowl glowing faintly in the darkness. It was a surprise to see her banishing herself to the street – he would have figured she had grandmother immunity.

She gave him a curt nod of recognition. He smiled back, plucking his much-reduced cigarette from his lips. “Pleasant night, isn't it, ma'am?”

“For a city.” She strolled out to stand beside him, looking up and down at the big houses around them. “This is a nice neighbourhood, I suppose.”

“Much nicer than where I live, sure,” he agreed, thinking of his boxy little flat, not without some affection. The posh neighbourhoods would have been too rich for him in so many ways.

“Hmmm. Is the _Rattle and Tap_ still open down in the south quarter?”

Feeling his jaw drop slightly, Havoc nodded. The _Rattle and Tap_ was one of the roughest joints in the city, infamous for the regular fights that spilled out of its doors however hard the city police tried to keep order. It was, to Havoc's certain knowledge, a total no-go area to anyone in uniform and to a lot of people out of it too. And here was this little old lady casually name dropping it as if it were an old haunt.

“Good to hear. Only lively place I ever found in this mausoleum of a city.”

Why was he even surprised? She was part of Ed Elric's extended family, she could probably take out an entire battalion with nothing but her walking-stick.

The image made him chuckle and she looked questioningly up at him. “Just thinking that you have a hell of a family, ma'am,” he told her honestly.

Her mouth crinkled. “So people tell me.”

They smoked in silence for a little while, sending plumes of curling steam up into the night sky.

“I'm sure it was quite the experience being caught up in their adventures,” Mrs Rockbell mused thoughtfully.

“It certainly was. Though I don't know how caught up I really was. Most of the time, I didn't have any clue what those kids were up to.”

“Hm. Did any of us? Quite the story those boys had to tell, wasn't it?”

“Wouldn't have believed it if it hadn't been them telling it.”

“They do raise the bar for what a person can believe, don't they?”

“More than anyone I've ever met. Except maybe the Brigadier General.” He said it without thinking, only remembering the complex implications Mustang's name had for the Rockbells after the words were out. He immediately wanted to kick his own teeth in.

But she just nodded, chewing her pipe. “They're all very surprising people.”

Havoc's cigarette finally burned down beyond his ability to pretend he was still smoking it. He sighed and let the end drop to the pavement, grinding it under his heel. Mrs Rockbell tapped out the bowl of her pipe.

“I suppose that's our excuses for not helping tidy up finished,” Havoc noted ruefully.

“Yours maybe.” She favoured him with a knowing look. “I'm still old.”

“Heh.” He grinned lopsidedly and offered her his arm. “Then allow me to escort you back out of this cold night, ma'am.”

There were worse things, Havoc suppose, than a weird life that meant you met interesting people. And hey, he still wasn't a green grocer. He must have been doing something right.


	22. Liaisons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The romance of secret passageways.

“Ouch! Mind out!”

“Sorry – hey, watch where you're putting your elbow!”

“Ow! That was my foot!”

“How can you even feel me through those toe-caps of yours?”

“Because these are my _military_ boots and they're crap – mind the table!”

“OW!”

“Look, just stand still a minute will you? I'll get the lamp lit.”

“I can't believe we're still doing his. Ed, why are we still doing this?”

“Doing what – ow, that's hot.”

“Creeping up to your barracks at night in the dark.”

“It's night . . . of course it's dark.”

“Ed. That isn't what I meant.”

“What, why are we going up to my room? Uh . . . do I have to spell it out?”

“No, you dummy! Argh. No, no, I know why we're doing this it's just – I wish you could afford a place out in the city . . .”

“Eh, I don't mind so much. Even if it weren't so expensive, I wouldn't be as close to the libraries – not sure they'd let me take some of the papers out of Headquarters. Lots of officers live here even when they _could_ afford to go out into the city.”

“Lots of officers don't have to sneak their girlfriends up through the secret passages every other night.”

“Uh . . . um. You'd be surprised.”

“Probably not, actually. Why does this place even have secret passages – what am I saying? This is where the alchemists live, of course it has secret passages.”

“I think they probably used to be so people could run dangerous ingredients and test subjects in and out without worrying about the main gate.”

“Because that makes it so much better that we're clambering through them in the dark.”

“C'mon. My corridor's up the next staircase.”

“Yeah, I know. We've done this enough times now. Which is kinda my point. Seriously Ed, this is ridiculous.”

“I . . . look, I know it is. But it's not like we have a, uh, choice . . .”

“Why are you saying that like we _do_ have a choice?”

“Promise you won't be mad?”

“How about I promise not to punch you if you tell me?”

“OK, OK – errr . . . Mustang did say he'd loan me money to find somewhere outside Headquarters.”

“And you said no, didn't you?”

“ _Yes_! I don't want to be in debt to that bastard, And –”

“And?”

“Hrmr . . . I'd be living on my own, wouldn't I?! I'd be living on my own because you have to go back to Rush Valley and Al and Noah are going back to Resembool and . . . I don't want to be stuck on my own, OK? At least here there are people around all the time . . .”

“Oh.”

“Hey, Winry! We're nearly at my room, can't you wait to –”

“Shut up and let me hug you, Elric.”

“. . . OK . . . but really, it's just through this door and along the corridor . . .”

“Fine! Go check the coast is clear. But Ed? I won't be away _that_ long you know?”

“Yeah I know . . . aww shit.”

“What?”

“N-nothing . . . move you bastard –”

“It's not nothing, is it?”

“Uh . . . I think the catch is stuck.”

“Please tell me you're kidding.”

“Um . . . you think it's too late to go and talk to Mustang about that loan . . . ?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * It amuses me to think that in Central, every other building is just lousy with secret passages.


	23. Parting Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turnabout happens.

“Bye Winry.” The kiss was almost perfunctory, a hurried admission that they really weren't going to see each other for the next few months. She wanted to grab Ed by the ears and make him do it properly but there wasn't time so she just tried to fix in her memory the image of him standing awkwardly in front of her, a sad little smile on his lips. He still blushed when they kissed in public, which was kind of sweet.

Then the guard's whistle went and she had to hurry away to find her seat, suitcase banging against her knees as she tried to twist it about and fit it through the aisle.

By the time she sat down, the train was slowly slipping forward. She pressed her face to the window and saw Ed waving from the platform, his long coat flapping about around his legs. _That's my boyfriend_ , she thought to herself, with just a little bit of smugness mixed into the disappointment of having to go without him. There was no way around it: she needed to get back to Rush Valley, if only for long enough to work out how to go about starting her own clinic. But having to leave Ed behind still wasn't fun.

She turned her head painfully far to keep him in sight for a few seconds longer, waving back as best she could. One last glimpse and then they were thundering over the points and she was speeding away from him, leaving him alone on the station to wait for her to come back even though neither of them knew when exactly that would be . . .

 _Huh_.

So this was what it felt like to be the one leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Short and sweet today!  
> * I've now got 90% of this thing written up, so I should be back on a regular posting schedule!  
> * There may possibly be a bonus post tomorrow simply because I might lose internet connection in about a week . . . also, I'm impatient to get stuff online.


	24. What Is Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His 'master' was always smiling.

It was dark enough that he knew he should not be able to see but not dark enough that he could not. The air was oppressive and close, full of strange half-scents. He would catch the smell of flowers or oil or burning meat, each for only a second at a time. The silence was deafening.

A shape, a shade blacker than the darkness, barrelled towards him, hooded and masked. He arched back from the blow, shifting his stance, raising his arms to block the follow-through. Too slow. A sharp elbow struck him in the side, level with his kidneys. Pain shot across his body. He whirled, trying to catch his attacker but they were already gone, swallowed back into the gloom.

“Clumsy.” The voice was directionless, omnipresent. “You are not anticipating.”

He did not bother pointing out that anticipating the movement of shadows in a cellar was a bit of a tall order. The complaint had produced little enough effect the last fifteen times.

Movement in the corner of his vision made him tense and half-turn. Nothing happened. Of course. He forced himself to relax, to – as the voice said – anticipate rather than react. Trust his senses. Stop trying to bottle them in and start welcoming the way they made the world so loud it hurt. That was the ticket. Or so the voice said.

His master's voice.

Sweat. The hiss of breath behind wood. And then –

He brought his arms up and across, trapping the dagger inches from his cheek. The steel bit through the thin sleeves of the ridiculous tunic they'd given him to wear, carving into the flesh of his forearms. The feeling was deeply unpleasant but the blade was finely honed and it didn't hurt yet. He twisted with all his might, which was considerably more than it used to be.

His attacker made a disgruntled noise as the dagger flew from their hand. He lashed out, trying to land a decent punch but they danced out of his reach effortlessly. As usual.

A hard blow struck him in the small of the back and he tasted bitter metal in his mouth. Another blow, to the shoulders this time, a third to his thigh. He yelled. Everything was sharp now, every sound a knife-edge, every smell a forest fire. He could see the shadows dancing around him, mocking him with their skill. Blood pounded in his head and pumped slickly from the wounds in his arms.

Clumsy. Not anticipating.

Helpless.

Lightning coursed in his veins. The sick and knotted thing lurking deep in his heart _squirmed_. His mouth dropped open in an animal howl. Red hell fire burst from his fingertips, blistering the air with static. He reared up and brought his hands crashing down against the floor.

And the room exploded. The flagstones tore apart, bucking and cracking. Great rents appeared in the walls, letting in murky electric light from the surrounding passages. Above him, the ceiling creaked ominously.

The shadows in their black costumes and all-concealing masks leapt and jumped around to avoid the debris. One of them ended up in the rafters, the other wove deftly around the lumps of masonry flying in all directions. Only at the very last minute did the reaction overtake them and fling them to the ground. He could not contain a shout of triumph at that.

Then it was all over and the red energy died away. The room settled back down, save for the occasional shower of dust. He looked down at his hands. The gashes in his arms were gone.

Someone tutted. The shadows surged back to their feet only to drop to their knees in prostration, their hidden faces averted. Edward March scowled and bit down on his roiling anger, reigning it in as best he could.

His 'master' was, as always, smiling. It was never a particularly nice smile. At best, it was shark-like. “Temper, temper,” came the lazy admonishment, “You will never become a great fighter if you just strike randomly at your foes.”

Edward's blood simmered. “I don't _want_ to become a great fighter! I don't want to fight anyone. What is the _point_ of this?”

“Why, survival of course. I have told you what the people of this land think of our kind. They would destroy you simply because you exist. Their hatred is matched only by their cunning in battle. Believe me.”

“Well I have to, don't I?” he sneered back, biting off the words.

The shark showed its teeth. “You do.”

His frustration boiled over. Before he quite knew what he was doing, his body had carried him right across the broken floor, far faster than the shadows could react. He drove his fist as hard as he could into that grinning face, right between the shining violet eyes and their mocking superiority.

The master didn't even flinch. “Temper.” A hand like a vice locked around Edward's neck. He felt himself being lifted from the ground and the next instant he was a rag-doll in flight, dashed helplessly against the wall. “Temper.”

A snap of those inhumanly strong fingers and there were more shadows crowding into the room. “Fix this mess,” the shark ordered carelessly, as if asking them to clear up an untidy wardrobe, “And then,” he said, turning his smile on Edward once more, “we shall begin again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Bonus update!  
> * And . . . horror of horrors . . . a continuation of a dangling plot thread from two parts of this series ago! No swooning in shock, please.  
> * I could say more but I shall let you draw your own conclusions about what's going on here.


	25. Sweet Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cretians don't do it behind closed doors.

“So this elixir really did make them super-strong?”

“That's what the legends say. Strong enough to hold off the Empire's soldiers in battle, which was practically unheard of at the time.”

“I really have never heard about alchemy that could do that. Has anyone ever tried to recreate it?”

“A few, I think. I remember reading something about someone killing themselves with mistletoe trying to. There are some books in the library back home that I could get sent to you if you wanted to research it. At least, I think I could. There are rules about sharing things with Amestris, but I don't think there'd be a problem with a couple of old books. I mean, I don't think there would . . .”

Mika trailed off and stared into his coffee for a moment. He always clammed up when the conversation got around to the whole diplomatic situation thing, and then he started feeling guilty about sharing details about Cretia, however trivial. Which was completely ridiculous, since Al was hardly going to repeat the things they spoke about to the government or anything like that.

“Can we go somewhere else?” Mika asked suddenly, pushing his cup away.

“S-sure.” Al rose as his friend jumped up and grabbed his coat, heading for the door and barely seeming to remember to leave cash on the table. Al followed, confused by the sudden change in mood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an older man in an unremarkable suit getting up from a table across the room. Mr Dart, or that was what Mika called him. Mika's bodyguard and perpetual shadow. Al was still not used to that, or at least not comfortable with being trailed everywhere. Mika barely seemed to notice him but then, Mr Dart had been guarding him for years. Perhaps it was possible to get used to that kind of thing.

They went out into the street, Mika charging ahead in a way that would have made it difficult to keep up if Al had not had longer legs and more experience with staying close to people who went through life at a charge. “Hey, slow down!” he called anyway, because experience did not equate to enjoyment, “What's wrong?”

Mr Dart followed at an unobtrusive distance. There were only a few people around on the street. It was that odd twilight time after most of the afternoon traffic had cleared up and just before people started heading home for work. Shop-fronts flew past, three, four, five before Mika noticeably slowed. He stuck his hands in his hair then thought better of it and shoved them into his pockets.

Al caught up and matched his pace, their legs moving more or less in step. He craned his neck to try getting a look at Mika's face, which was drawn and tight around the eyes. When he finally said something, it was with a catch in his voice. “I . . . my father's been recalled home.”

“Oh.” The implications sank in slowly. “ _Oh_.”

“Yes. And I should be happy about that . . .” It did not sound like he was happy about it in the slightest.

“You . . . you don't like Amestris much, I know . . .”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean . . . I don't like this city much. And Amestrians are really prudish about drinking and parties and se – sorry.”

“It's OK. I don't mind Central but it is a bit . . . grand. I, uh, guess I wouldn't know too much about the other stuff though.” Al felt himself blushing and cursed his stupid face for doing it so easily.

“And that's OK – you are better than home about some things. You just do it all behind closed doors.”

“I suppose so . . .” Al's mind spun back to overheard snatches of conversation in barrack rooms about exactly what went on behind those closed doors. From those at least, it did not seem like Amestrians were a particularly prudish people. “Cretians . . . don't do it behind closed doors?” He really did not know enough about Cretia, except again things overheard from soldiers, which were usually pretty unflattering. There was something unnerving about realising he knew far more about ancient civilisations and countries in other universes than he did of the modern nations that surrounded Amestris.

Mika laughed, the clouds clearing from his face for a little while. “We're more honest about some things, I think.”

“I can see how that would be a good thing . . .”

“So why am I not happy to be going back?”

“Uh . . . yes?”

He slumped despondently and Al found he very much wanted to put an arm around him. Only the awareness of Mr Dart, somewhere behind them, stopped him.

“Part of it is going back to mother,” Mika muttered darkly, “I can hear it now – Mika, you're letting the family down. Mika, sit up straight and make polite conversation with the Mademoiselle. Mika, we really must get you married off soon or what will you make of your life? Urgh. Father's not exactly thrilled about that either, I can tell.”

From what Mika had told Al about his mother, he could believe that. “She doesn't sound like a great person to be around.”

“Hah! I could stand it though, if . . .”

“If . . . what?”

Quickly glancing over his shoulder, Mika suddenly seized Al's arm and pulled him through the gates of a public park, then sideways again into a sort of hedge maze. Al vaguely remembered looking down on it from above at some point, a squared green spiral curling around to a fountain or something like that. They got about halfway to the centre before Mika slowed down and stopped. He let go of Al and stood there looking at his shoes. “I could stand it,” he said haltingly, “if I could do this again.”

And he leaned in and kissed Al clumsily on the lips.

“Oh,” Al said when it was over.

Mika immediately jerked back, aghast. “You don't feel the same, do you? I'm-I'm sorry! I didn't mean – I mean, if you don't –”

Reaching out, Al caught Mika's shoulder before the other boy could bolt. “No, I-I –” What had Ed asked? Whether Mika was pretty? Black hair falling over wide eyes, fine, narrow lips, an ever-so-slightly soft, curving face, olive skin –

“I . . . I probably do, actually,” Al managed.

“You do?”

“I think so . . .” Impulsively, Al tugged Mika closer and kissed him back. It was weird and exciting, especially when Mika pressed up against him, looping his arms around his waist.

“When . . . when did you first decide you wanted to do that?” Al asked after they broke apart again.

“Ah . . . about the time you got really excited about the idea that a cauldron could form a transmutation circle, I think . . .”

“That . . . was the first time we had coffee together.”

“Yes . . . um . . . what about you?”

“Oh, err . . .” Al swallowed. “I think it might actually have been the first time I met you.”

“Really?”

“You . . . um.” He look sideways at the hedge. “You have really nice looking lips.”

A second later they were both giggling helplessly.

Mika got a hold of himself first. “Ah, if this . . . this was a romantic novel, I think this is the point we make a pact to always love each other and go off to lives of duty and misery . . .”

“I guess so,” Al agreed, thinking about the confusing afternoon he'd once spent with Sheska trying to explain what was so amazing about romance fiction, “Or the point where we tear each others clothes off and . . . um.”

Tugging his coat tight, Mika shook his head. “Not in this climate.”

“Then I guess it's misery and duty . . . err . . . that's what you're afraid of, isn't it? About going home?”

He nodded, closing his eyes. “I can see my whole life mapped out ahead of me. It leads right up to the same trap mother stuck father into.”

Al put his arm around Mika's shoulder and hugged him to his side. “I wish I could fix that for you.”

“Me too. Isn't there a transmutation to change someone's fate?”

“Not . . . like that.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah. But . . . hey, look. Alchemy can't change fate but . . . other things can. Really. You can change what other people decide for you. I've seen it happen.”

“Even when the other people are like my mother?”

“When they're much worse.” Al sighed. “I wish I'd given you that rose. We could have done this much sooner.”

“Rose?”

“Oh, just something I thought about a while ago – I should have gone through with it, not just used it to tease brother.”

“I wish I'd kissed you the first time I'd thought about it!”

“Then next time it happens, do that. Let's make a pact,” Al elaborated when Mika frowned at him in confusion, “but one that the next time we meet people that make us feel like this, we won't hesitate.”

“I'm not sure what the chances of meeting another handsome alchemist interested in obscure history are . . .”

Knowing he was blushing again, Al hugged Mika tighter. “There will be someone.”

“All right . . . and if a miracle happens and we see each other again, let's not hesitate then either.”

“It's a deal.” Al laughed. “And if it you really can't stand being stuck at home again, write and tell me. I can't change fate with my alchemy but it's pretty good for shining armour.”

“Mr Dart's probably starting to wonder what's taking us so long . . .” Mika twisted his head to look back down the path out of the maze.

“I'm surprised he didn't run in here after us.”

“He knew I'd want to say goodbye properly.”

“Oh. What, err, counts as properly?”

They spent a good five minutes working on the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Why I feel the need to start a romance for Al and scotch it after a couple of months I have no idea - we should probably just put down as character development or something  
> * Based on geographical position, I'm going with Cretia being vaguely French in culture and history. This may or may not be entirely for the joke at the start of this vignette.  
> * Oh, and now I need to put down a new / tag on this fic, don't I?


	26. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mustang has good and bad days. Today is not a good day.

Mustang’s house was in a very expensive part of town. Beyond that, there was really nothing distinctive about it. It was just another town-house in a long row of them, each as tall and exclusive as the next. You’d never have guessed from the outside that a full-blown Brigadier General alchemist lived there.

Knowing Mustang, that was entirely the point.

Double checking the scrap of paper Havoc had written the address on, Ed bounded up the steps and pounded on the front door. He was not exactly happy at being sent out into the rain to find out why the bastard hadn’t shown up to work or answered Hawkeye’s phone calls. There was actual work he could be doing and he'd wanted to be able to leave early enough to swing by a couple of the bookshops, which was looking less and less likely the longer he was stuck out in the wet while Mustang didn't bother to answer his own damn front door.

Ed weighed the key Havoc had thrust into his hand along with the address. Part of him was tempted to alchemise the lock out of the door anyway, just for the revenge. He was pretty sure Mustang had simply decided to oversleep and it was all a fuss about nothing.

Only Havoc had looked genuinely frightened as he grabbed Ed mid-way between administration and the officer's mess. And as nice as it was to imagine himself kicking Mustang's smirking smug face out of bed, Ed kept thinking about Maes Hughes and Dr Marcoh and Alfons and just how easily people died when he wasn't looking.

The key clicked smoothly in the lock and the door opened on a high, narrow entrance hall. Light, such as there was, fell through the stained glass window above the porch and patterned the plain tiles with colours. “Hey, Mustang!” Ed shouted, his voice booming through the house. There was no reply. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain hit him in the neck. “Mustang!” he tried again, “Get your lazy ass out of bed!”

Not a sound.

Every sense screaming, Ed closed the door as quietly as he could and glided up the hallway, grateful for the way his uniform trousers muffled the sound of auto-mail motors. The first room on the right was a study, the door ajar, the desk covered in papers and the shelves heaving under far more books than they could comfortably hold. No sign of anything actually wrong though. The next was a dining room that looked like no one had set foot in it for years. The room at the back was an enormous kitchen and, again, nothing seemed amiss. It was actually pretty spotless which either meant Mustang never used it or he employed a cleaner. Ed started up the stairs.

He smelt burning cloth before he was two steps up. Hackles rising, forming transmutations in his mind, Ed raced the rest of the way to the first landing. There were two doors open on it, one into what he assumed was the main bedroom. Just as he might have expected, there was a proper four-poster bed, curtains and all. How the hell they had got it up the stairs was a mystery. The covers were in disarray, a couple of the pillows on the floor. And on a chair by the big dressing table in the corner hung the source of the smell: the charred remains of a Brigadier General's uniform tunic.

“Oh boy . . .” Ed breathed. Still on high alert, he ducked back out to the landing and moved to the other open door. This was clearly the lounge, a spacious room with a view over the back gardens. There were a few fashionable prints on the walls, four elegant standing lamps and two massive sofas, at right angles to one another.

Slumped on the floor at the foot of one of them, his head sunk on his chest, an empty whiskey glass in his hand, was Mustang.

He wasn't dead. That was clear from the way his eye flicked up as Ed came in. Which was a relief, obviously. Except . . . “Mustang?”

The General's head rose fractionally On seeing who it was, he turned his face away. There were photographs scattered around him on the carpet, Ed noticed, an album lying broken open near his bare feet. No, not photos – newspaper clippings.

“What the hell is all this, Mustang? You know Hawkeye's having to cover like mad for you at Headquarters, right? Havoc too. Dunno how many meetings you had but you've picked a really shit day to stay home and get drunk.”

Ed's boot clinked against an empty bottle. He bent down and picked it up, examining it critically. “Jeez. How much have you had?”

“Not enough.” It was a whisper of a reply, spoken determinedly to the floor.

There was no trace of the usual self-satisfied demeanour. Ever since he had started actually working with the man for more than a few days at a time, Ed had suspected it took some effort to keep the mask up but he had never seen it actually slip completely. It was more than a little disturbing to see Mustang lolling there like his strings had been cut.

Moving closer, Ed studied the clippings he was walking around. There were pieces on Ishbal and the wars out west and the Drachma situation and just on the Military in general. There were pictures too, weary soldiers slogging through dusty passes, State Alchemists looking serious as assorted _things_ were carried past the camera, ruins that might have been anywhere. And there, close to one of the sofa legs, the crumpled obituary of one Edward Elric.

Ed rubbed his chin. He had no idea what to do. So lowered himself down to sit on the floor next to Mustang and exhaled slowly. “What's wrong?”

Mustang did not respond. Ed started to run through things that might have caused . . . whatever this was. The anniversary of Hughes' death? No, that wasn't for months. The fight with the Führer? Again, no. Something someone had said in the office, some report that had come in? That didn't make sense. Mustang had to listen to and read shitty stuff all the time and it never got to him. So what – ?

Finally, Mustang turned to look at him. Very slowly, he raised the empty glass and squinted through it. “I am,” he declared, as if this explained everything.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I'm wrong. I am wrong.”

“No, I get that. I meant – why are you wrong? What about?”

The General did not answer. Instead, he turned his glass upside down, drew back his arm and calmly flung it the length of the room. Or tried to. If he had meant for it to smash dramatically against the far wall, he was going to be disappointed. It bounced on the floor and rolled against one of the lamps.

Ed watched it come to a stop. “Seriously Mustang, what the hell?”

“Do you know how many times I haven't died?”

The question took him a moment to process. “Um, no . . .”

“The Führer, Archer, Scar, L'enfer – I tried to work out how far back it went. All the way back to Ishbal. First time we pitched camp. Sniper. Lousy shot. I froze. Just locked up. Couldn't even –” Mustang snapped his fingers and it occurred to Ed to be grateful that his gloves were nowhere in sight. “There was a private, can't have been a day older than you are now. He was right next to me and then – he wasn't. His blood . . . I . . . just dumb luck. Stupid. Bullet could have hit either of us. How many times has that happened? How many good people have died when I've not?”

“But that's just . . .” Ed threw up his hands helplessly. “Shit happens. Dumb luck, like you said.”

“Sure. Arbitrary. Some kid bites a bullet and they give me medals for surviving. The kid's still dead. And this waste of a human life still gets to walk around unharmed.”

He sounded so flat and sure, like what he was saying made perfect sense and there was no other way it could possibly be. What the hell was Ed supposed to say or do to make him snap out of it? He thought about the nights when he'd woken up in some German rat hole, screaming because in his dreams he was trying to save Hughes or Dad or Nina, or he was back in Dante's mansion, watching the life drain out of Greed's body. And Al would crawl into bed beside him and hug him like Mom used to and stroke his hair until he could breathe normally again.

Ed was pretty damn sure that stroking Mustang's hair would not help the situation.

“OK.” He played with the tassel that was for some reason a vital part of his uniform. “You know what I think? I think that there's no reason for there to be only one other world. If there's one, why shouldn't there be more? There could be hundreds, thousands out there, all behind their own Gates, all with their own 'Truths', all going about on their own. And I bet in one of those worlds, that guy lived and you died. So he got to walk around and you didn't. And you know what? That means there wasn't a Roy Mustang to come along and make me think about being a State Alchemist to get Al's body back. That means there wasn't a Roy Mustang to send me and Al on to that train to save Major Hughes. That means there wasn't a Roy Mustang to let me run around after the Stone, or set me on to Dr Marcoh, or help us get away from the East, or take down Bradley. Without you, I'd have never got Al back. Hell, I'd probably have been sucked into a Philosopher's Stone or gutted by Envy or just plain fucking shot. And that's just me. There'd have been no one for Hawkeye to look up to and protect, no one for Hughes to piss off with baby photos and not get punched, no one to look after Gracia, or give Falman a chance, or not kick Breda out for being a lazy ass, or – or anything you've ever done! Yeah, sure, you've done some shit things. But everything you do to make up for, every bit of good you've done while you try – that means you don't get to call yourself a waste, OK?

Had any of that got through? Was anything he said sinking into the bastard's thick skull? There was no sign of it. Damn, and people called _him_ the stubborn one. Then he saw Mustang close his eye. “Never enough,” he whispered.

“But it is _something_.”

He’d had enough of this. Ed scrambled to his feet and got a hand under Mustang's arm. “Up,” he ordered when the older man looked confused, “If you're just going to be miserable sitting there, you're not gonna sit there.” As gently and firmly as he could, he guided Mustang's stumbling steps back along to – it took a couple of guesses to get the right door – the bathroom. “Get washed.” Simple instructions. Maybe that would work. “I'll be in the kitchen.”

The door clicked shut behind him. After a minute, he heard the taps being turned on.

Stomping downstairs, Ed went briefly into the study to call Headquarters. He told Fuery that Mustang was feeling sick and wouldn't be able to make it in at all. He hoped he'd dropped enough hints that Hawkeye would get the message and be over as fast as the inner workings of the Military would let her. Then he went to raid Mustang's larder.

Quarter of an hour later, he heard the cistern go and the taps shut off. Silence. Followed by a door opening. The creaking of floorboards. Feet on the stairs.

Mustang came in slowly, unsteadily, his shirt sleeves damp. Ed watched him carefully, ready to spring if it looked like he'd fall over or something stupid like that. But no. He made it far enough to pull out a chair, the legs scraping on the tiles. He sunk into it bonelessly.

Ed shifted in his own chair, propped his chin on his auto-mail and regarded his commanding officer thoughtfully. With his free hand, he pushed the plate of sandwiches across the table. Mustang blinked at him, took one, sniffed it, then started eating.

And maybe that was something too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Well, shell-shock is sure fun to write . . . guh.  
> * I cannot necessarily recommend the Ed Elric Patented Depression Response but it does feel like how he's react.  
> * The next chapter will be happier.


	27. Tittle-tattle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fame and misfortune strike again.

“'And what of the dashing Fullmetal Alchemist, Hero of the People? Since his return to active duty as a member of the State Alchemy corps, it is this paper's understanding that he has been seen only rarely in the city, with most of his time spent diligently at work within the halls of the Central Libraries. Despite this, rumours have come to this columnist's attention that Major Elric has been seen walking out with a number of young ladies both in and out of uniform –'”

“A number of ladies? Fuery interrupted, “Isn't it only Miss Sheska he gets coffee for?”

“One's still a number,” Breda pointed out.

“But in and out of uniform? Oh, oh – they must have seen him with Gracia.”

Breda pulled a face. “Really? No offence to her but she's not what I'd call young. Not in the way they usually mean.”

“Are you going to let me finish reading this?” Falman demanded, brandishing the paper meaningfully.

“Sorry. Go for it.”

“Ahem. '. . . both in and out of uniform. One lady in particular seems to have taken the Major's eye and while her name must go unmentioned, it would not be a surprise to see a close alliance between the cream of this country's alchemical skill and the highest strata of society in the near future.'”

Breda's brow furrowed. “What the hell is that about?”

“Maybe they mean Lady Handley-Paige?” Fuery suggested, “He's met her a couple of times, hasn't he?”

“Good thought, good thought . . . still not what I'd call young. And she's not the marrying kind, is she?”

“How would you know what kind she is?” Falman asked, skimming down the rest of the column.

“Eh, just what I've heard. But seriously though, what's the Major been up to if they can print stuff like that about him? I'm not sure he even notices girls that aren't Miss Winry. Not like that anyway.”

“Maybe they're just making it up? They do that, right?” Fuery shook his head sadly. “Especially in the society columns.”

Falman nodded. “I recall some of the things they used to say about the Brigadier General, back when he was just a Lieutenant Colonel. Some of it was positively libellous.”

“Yeah, but most of that was true.” Picking up a pencil, Breda started to doodle on his blotter. “But Fullmetal doesn't play the field like Flame.”

“If I was stepping out with Miss Winry, I wouldn't dare either,” Fuery said pensively, “I've heard she throws a mean punch.”

“Stepping out? What are you, sixty?”

“Anyway, I do not believe it would be in the Major's character to be dishonourable towards her regardless.”

“That, Falman, is because you have a stick up your ass. Trust me, any man can be dishonourable for the right woman. Especially the right woman with lots of money.”

“Didn't you just say that Fullmetal doesn't play the field?”

“I'm not saying he _is_ cheating, just that for the right girl, he _would_. Everyone would. Except Fuery, of course.”

“You are a terrible cynic,” Falman accused.

“Yeah, but I'm right.”

The door crashed open and an irate Captain Havoc stamped in. “All right, which of you losers hid the franking machine? Dakota swears blind he put it back but it's not on the shelf.”

Fuery looked at Falman. Falman looked at Fuery. They both turned to look at Breda.

“ _What_?” They continued to stare at him. “Oh, fine.” He reached under his desk and hauled out the black metal box. “I was done with it anyway.”

Havoc eyed the franking machine and then Breda, a question forming on his lips. Then he changed his mind. “No, don't want to know. Give it here.”

“Ah, Captain Havoc, sir?” Falman intercepted him before he could escape with his prize. “We were wondering if you could help us with something.”

“Were we?” Fuery asked in a stage whisper. Breda shrugged.

“Yeah, what?” Havoc gave Falman the look of a man innately suspicious of anyone using his rank with intent.

“It's this society column concerning Major Elric. We cannot work out who the civilian participant could be and were wondering if you might have some insight?” Falman thrust the paper under Havoc's nose.

The captain's gaze flicked left to right down the column. His right eye twitched. The other three men leaned forward expectantly. Havoc sighed and rolled his eyes. “It's Catherine Armstrong.”

“No way!” Fuery protested.

“What, Armstrong's kid sister? The one who –”

“Yes, her.” Havoc cut Breda off before he could finish. “Armstrong asked Ed to take her out to some sort of afternoon concert because she wanted to meet the great Hero of the People, only they got lost on the way there and ended up just having afternoon tea or something like that.”

“And thus a true romance was born,” Breda cooed.

“Yeah, right. She said he wasn't as short as she expected but it's not like they really hit it off.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You know details? Like actual details, not just hearsay? Do you have any idea how much that could be worth – these people _pay_ for that kind of dirt!”

“It's not dirt, Catherine's too good to be dragged into that kind of shit and I don't want Ed to kill me.” Havoc batted the paper away. “Get that crap out of my face. And get back to work!” He wheeled and stalked out.

“You know, I think he's starting to sound a bit like the General,” Fuery observed to no one in particular.

“He's just pissed Ed got to go on a date with her and she wouldn't even give him the time of day.”

Falman smoothed out his paper and carried it back to his desk. “At least we now know the truth.”

A short silence passed by.

“Are you feeling all right, Breda?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure Falman.”

“Hmm. Sorry. I would just have expected you to start some scheme to make money off selling rumours about Ed to the papers –”

Fuery slapped a hand to his face.

“Wow, I'd have never thought of that,” Breda said brightly, “That's a really interesting suggestion, cos they'd go for any old made up shit if they could say it came from a reliable source close to the Major! Falman, you're a genius!”

Fuery slapped his other hand across the first.

Breda rolled his eyes in almost exactly the same way as Havoc. “Honestly guys, what do you think I am? I wouldn't do that to Ed!”

“Wouldn't do what to me?” asked the man in question, shouldering his way into the office, a thick bundle of papers in one hand, a half-eaten sandwich in the other. He blinked as he saw colour draining from three faces simultaneously.

Falman rather too hurriedly folded the paper in half and tossed it in the waste paper bin. Fuery shrank down behind his typewriter. Breda stammered. “N-nothing. Stupid things. Rumours. You know. Tittle-tattle.”

“Right . . .” Ed looked from one of them to the next, expression going through several stages of confusion before settling on a fairly standard you-are-all-insane setting. “The General in?”

“Oh, yeah – absolutely he is. You can probably go straight on in. Right now.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Their eyes tracked him clumping across to the inner door and averted quickly as he cast one last puzzled glance over his shoulder. He barged into Mustang's sanctum and the slam of the door closing covered three relieved sighs.

Falman gingerly retrieved the paper from the bin and tucked it carefully away in his desk. He would finish it later, when any and all temperamental alchemists were safely clocked off for the day. He was just about to make a stab at doing some real work when a horrible thought occurred to him.

“What's wrong?” asked Fuery, an edge of concern in his voice.

“Ahhh.” Falman cleared his throat. “Which paper does the General usually read in the morning?”

The explosion of expletives, when it came, was loud enough to echo clean through the thick panelling of Mustang's office and a good way through the rest of the building.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Everyone OK from that mood whiplash? Good, good . . .  
> * I love writing these guys.


	28. Elric Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winry's thought of everything this time.

“They’re sending you _where_?”

“Fort Briggs,” Ed repeated, trapping the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he leant to tie his bootlaces, “It’s up on the Drachma border.”

“Why?”

“Um . . . ’cause they don’t want the Drachmans to come through that way, I guess . . .”

Winry’s sigh hissed down the phone line. “No, dummy. Why are they sending you there?”

“Oh!” He cleared his throat and moved on to the other boot. “Something about checking over the walls to make sure everything's OK. It's some kind of annual inspection. This year, they want me to take a look.”

“Why?” Winry asked again.

He could imagine her eyebrows going up. “I dunno, maybe ‘cause I’m the best alchemist in the army?” he said with his best imitation of a roguish grin, “Anyway . . . I was thinking . . . since it’s supposed to be really cold up there…is my auto-mail going to be OK?”

There was a stunned pause as Winry processed the fact that _Edward Elric_ was worrying about the state of his prostheses.

“I mean,” Ed went on, “you said it was lucky that I hadn’t been out in the snow in Brina for too long, because you can get frost-bite from auto-mail that’s not fitted for heavy weather . . . and I don’t want frost-bite . . . s-so . . .”

“Err, yeah,” Winry began, “How long are you going to be up there?”

“'Bout a week, maybe? Hang on, I've got the file they gave me here somewhere . . .” Adjusting the phone, he started to search through the mounds of paper spread over his desk.

“Well, if it’s not going to be much longer than that, I wouldn’t worry. It’s already pretty weather-proof.”

“Uh huh . . . wait, what?” He blinked. “It is?”

She laughed. “Have you been feeling the cold in Central?”

“Urr . . .” He thought about it. “I guess not. Not from my auto-mail, I mean. Wow. You actually built it thinking I’d go out in the cold a lot?” Another laugh. He smiled. He liked that sound.

“I built it thinking you’d go out in every kind of weather,” she said seriously, “And hit people with it. And change its shape every couple of days.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did, Ed! It’s not perfect but I built it with everything I could think of in mind. With all the stuff you get yourself into . . .” She trailed off meaningfully.

Reflecting that he really didn’t deserve to have her as a mechanic let alone . . . well, yeah, Ed finally located the file and flipped it open. He remembered as he did so the expression on Mustang’s face when he’d handed it over. The one that looked suspiciously like he was trying not to break down in a fit of giggling . . .

“That’s great, Winry! OK, I’ve got the details here. Err . . . ‘Major Elric, blah, blah, blah, to report to Briggs Fortress, blah, blah, commanding officer Major General Olivier Mira Armstron –THAT BASTARD! HE KNOWS THAT MAD WITCH WANTS TO CUT MY HEAD OFF!”

A muffled sound not unlike a laugh travelled from Rush Valley to Central. “See what I mean?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * And this, ladies and gentlebeings, would be the start of a story arc within this collection of otherwise disconnected little vignettes. Feel free to quake in terror.


	29. Sound Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to spell it out for them.

“ _The riverside’s just too expensive, which is a shame because it’s the nicest part of the city. The districts closest to the hospital aren’t too bad but they’re so far away from the Military Headquarters, so that wouldn’t be so good for Ed. Maybe I could look in the Corn Market streets . . . only those are pretty old buildings . . . and then I have to think about equipment. And furniture! We’ll need furniture – I don’t even know where I can get that! Maybe I can ask Ed and Al and Noah to make us some from scrap, that would save some money. Well, maybe not Ed . . .”_

Pinako Rockbell listened to her granddaughter ramble down a long list of factors that had to be considered as part of The Big Move. Winry worked her way through it the same way she would work on a technical project, ideas sparking off each other, one conclusion scattering out into half a dozen different directions before she viciously pruned her way back to the nub of the issue. From the outside, it veered towards the haphazard but from long observation, Pinako trusted in Winry's ability to never lose sight of the central problem.

She wondered occasionally where the child had picked up that way of thinking. Certainly not from her. Perhaps, somehow, thanks to the vagueries of heredity and memory, it came from Winry's mother. Yuriy always used to tease Sara about being a little scatterbrained, though that had never seemed to work to her detriment in the long run.

Letting a sigh escape through her nose, Pinako allowed herself a moment for regret and lost opportunities, for that haunting question that came to her sometimes in the dark hours of a sleepless night. _Would you approve of the girl I brought your daughter up to be?_

Winry was still ploughing on through her list. _“And there are things like the water rates to think about – and electricity! Most of Central's wired up but Captain Hawkeye did warn me to watch out for places where the lines hadn't been reconnected after the reconstruction work, in case I get landed with extra bills for fixing that. Oh, did I tell you Mr Garfiel gave me the addresses of a couple of mechanics he knows who have shops in Central? He says a lot of them group together into cooperatives to balance their workloads and look out for each other, and because they all have different specialisms. Though he also said that he's heard that there's a lot of bad feeling about auto-mail after all that crazy business with Colonel Archer – I didn't really pick up on that when I was at the hospital though so maybe it's got better. Anyway, I think that sounds like a nice idea, the cooperative thing? Only I don't know how it'd really work out . . . Dominic's been muttering about how I'll have to worry about being seen as the competition – this is in the same breath as telling me he's tired of telling me to get out of his hair and go run my own shop already, obviously.”_

Obviously. Dominic LeCoulte had been an old worry-wart when he'd been young and apparently hadn't changed a bit over the years.

“ _Oh!”_ Winry's voice shot up. _“Advertising! I hadn't even thought about that – I don't even know where auto-mail mechanics advertise in Central. I mean, there's the hospital but outside of that . . . maybe I should look at newspaper ads . . . Ed's going to love that, after the things they've printed about him . . .”_

Pinako's face crinkled with amusement as she thought about the cuttings Al was keeping in a box in the study, all ready to be framed and put somewhere Ed would happen upon them. “My, my, you are going to be busy, aren't you?”

“ _Yes! I've no idea how I'm going to cope with it all!”_

The phone went quiet after that, then Winry said, _“Granny? Am I doing the right thing?”_

The question made Pinako sit up straighter, which was not something her body appreciated very much. It would just have to suffer. “What do you think?” she asked carefully.

“ _I think so? It's not what I'd planned to do, before Ed and Al came back – I didn't think I'd be able to afford Central and . . . and I also kind of thought I would take over from you one day. Not any time soon, I mean, just – eventually.”_ Ah, that sainted 'eventually', as if the end of a life could be put off like so much spring-cleaning. _“And I had this plan . . . that I'd start small and build up a clinic somewhere busy but not too far from Resembool so that one day I could . . . well, I'd need an apprentice or a partner or something to run two practices, wouldn't I? It wasn't something I'd thought through completely, just . . . something I'd thought about. Only now . . . now I'm going straight to Central – and I want to and I was always going to go_ somewhere _to set up a clinic, so I'm not really doing it just because of Ed – but . . . is it the right thing to do? I'm just not sure . . .”_

Taking a moment to make sure Winry was finished, Pinako exhaled slowly. “You,” she said, stressing the word, “are always going to be a Rockbell and it does not matter where you are because you will always be there to heal people. Right now, you are going to do that in Central but that isn't forever. If that is the right thing to do, it is the right thing to do _now_ , not for the rest of your life. Right now you're following Ed, which is something you've always itched to do properly. But that doesn't have to be forever either. Certainly I don't imagine Ed will stay in Central for the rest of his life. One day he'll be done with all this military nonsense and then, well. I'm leaving you this house, you know that. Even after I'm gone – no, listen to me Winry, even when I'm gone, you will always have a home here. That isn't going to change. You don't have to come back, you can lock this old place up or run two clinics at once or whatever you want. Just remember that whatever you decide to do now, you will always be you and you will always be able to come home to Resembool.”

“ _Thank you, Granma.”_ Winry's voice was a little choked.

Pinako nodded firmly, though of course no one was going to see that. “And I'd suggest you try talking to some of those soldiers Ed hangs around with, the ones from General Mustang's office. They seem like just the sort of people who could lay their hands on some decent furniture going cheap . . .”

 


	30. Frosty Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Briggs.

It was _so fucking cold_.

It was so fucking cold Ed could no longer feel the tips of his ears, most of the fingers on his left hand or any of his toes.

It was so fucking cold his nose felt like it had frozen solid, dropped off and been replaced with an icicle.

It was so fucking cold that there weren't enough ways to describe how fucking cold it was.

Bundled up in the fur-lined version of his uniform that Hawkeye had made sure he'd been issued with before he left, he was seriously considering transmuting the truck taking him up to the fort into a petrol-powered furnace just to get himself defrosted for a minute. The only reason he didn't was because that would mean getting stuck in the fucking cold permanently once the petrol ran out and even he could work out that was a bad exchange for short-term heat. Even if short-term heat sounded _so good_ right now.

The driver sitting next to him was irritatingly unconcerned by the temperature and grinned a lot as he pointed out what passed for landmarks in the snow-covered wasteland that was the North Sector. His cheeriness made Ed want to punch him but since that would have required taking energy away from shivering and hugging himself, he was safe.

Ed did not have the slightest clue why anyone would want to live in such a frigid climate, much less why people would need to fight over the right to do so. The sight of Fort Briggs rising at the end of the valley just rammed home how insane people were that they would decide to build something so stupidly huge to guard an ice-box. Presumably Drachma was just that much worse that they would consider Northern Amestris an improvement. Though why there should even _be_ a Northern Amestris when as far as Ed could tell there were only a handful of villages subsisting above the vaguely tolerable latitude of North City itself and even those were largely in terminal decline . . .

Not that the land itself had ever really been the point. Oh no. Like everything about the country, Amestris' annexing of the bits of Drachma that had become the North Sector was just another pointless war designed to create maximum despair and give any alchemists in the region good reason to want to forge a Philosopher's Stone. What, Ed wondered, were the chances that the Assembly would ever consider relinquishing the lands back to Drachma? It had happened with Ishbal but then, the war with Ishbal was more recent and had been publicly revealed as unjustified. So that was almost definitely, 'no chance in hell.'

The fortress had obviously been built to last. It towered up and up, a dam against an imagined tide of Drachman soldiers. The gatehouse yawned at the end of the road, as huge and solid as any of the over-built blocks that made up Central Headquarters, dwarfed by the wall behind it. It must have taken hundreds of people to construct that great grey cliff. How many had died in the process? Did their bones still lie underneath? For a wild instant, Ed imagined a whole city of tombs layered under the concrete and steel. Why not? It would be the perfect place to have imprisoned another rogue homunculus too, another Greed who had defied Dante's designs.

He hoped not. He wasn't sure he could cope with that on top of the cold and the prospect of more contact with Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong.

To his immense relief, it was not the Major General herself who stood waiting for him after an interminable march through the cavernous interior of the wall. Instead, it was a white-haired man with Ishballan skin and a major's insignia on shoulders. Ed fumbled a salute after only a few seconds delay and the man returned the gesture, his eyes hidden by dark goggles. “Good to see you made it up here, Major Elric. We were worried the weather around North City might prove troublesome.”

“You actually get weather up here? Isn't it too cold for that?”

The man snorted. “It's certainly usually the frozen kind. I'm Major Miles. The General asked me to meet you personally and tell you that she wants you up on the wall and starting your work right away.”

Ed actually felt the blood unfreezing from his face just so that it could drain away. “Right away? You're kidding.”

“I might be but the General isn't,” Miles said dryly, “She would be greatly appreciative if this inspection could be concluded as swiftly as possible.”

“But-what –” Ed knew he was starting to splutter and did not particularly care. “She was the one who got me sent up here!”

“Yes, I understand that is the case. As I said, she would appreciate it if this inspection could be completed with all due speed.”

Oh brilliant. He was having a Mustang-ploy pulled on him by an Armstrong. His life was clearly complete.

Ed hefted his kitbag in irritation. “How'm I supposed to inspect anything if I have to heave this around with me?”

“I'll have your kit taken to your quarters.” Miles beckoned over an infantryman and gestured.

“Hang on, I need to get –” Fending off the soldier, Ed dug out the official notebook in which he was supposed to be recording his findings. “There – right, thanks. OK.” He let the bag go and glared at Miles. “Guess you'd better show me where I should start.”

Miles smiled.


	31. Runner Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being out of the race does not mean you stop caring.

Paninya stopped outside Garfiel's shop, arrested by the sight of an apprentice auto-mail mechanic trying to beat a piece of sheet metal to death. Doddie was laying into it with gusto, hair plastered across his forehead by the exertion, a twist to his mouth suggesting that he was imagining someone he really didn't like on the other end of the hammer.

After a minute, he noticed her staring and laid off for a second. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” She waved at his work. “Not liking the shin guards today, huh?”

“Eh. Just needed to let off some steam is all.”

“Metal work can be incredibly stress-relieving,” Garfiel observed, wandering through the shop behind Doddie with a box of screws, “Morning, Miss Paninya!”

“Morning!” She switched her attention back to Doddie, who was still gripping the hammer like he was trying to break it single-handedly. “So what's got you so het up this early in the day?”

“Oh, just . . . things.”

“It's affairs of the heart, dear.” Garfiel reappeared with a cup of herbal tea daintily held between thumb and forefinger. “Really terribly sad.”

Doddie glared daggers at his boss and gave the metal plate another couple of dents. He muttered something unintelligible.

“Oh honey, it's OK. You're among friends here, we don't judge.”

Paninya propped herself against the rail that ran along in front of the shop. She scratched her nose and frowned at Doddie. “Is this about Winry and Ed?”

A particularly loud blow bent one corner of the shin guard to a near ninety-degree angle. “Damn.”

Garfiel sipped his tea. “It's a good job that's just a scrap piece, isn't it?”

With a gurgling noise, Doddie rounded on him. “What – you said –”

The big man shrugged with easy disregard. “You were in a temper, I thought you ought to get it out of your system before you did any real work today.”

“So it is about Winry and Ed,” Paninya concluded, hoping to prevent Doddie switching targets with the hammer, “About them . . . uh . . .”

“Who Rockbell chooses to go around with is entirely her own business and no concern of mine!” It was lucky he was already flushed from exertion otherwise it would have been really obvious how much he was blushing at such a blatant lie.

Paninya felt a mild stab of guilt. She had, after all, been the one to ever so unsubtly try to play matchmaker between the two mechanics. Of course, that had not been for Doddie’s sake. He was a nice guy and all, she would never have encouraged him otherwise, but her motivation had been purely to help Winry through the emotional havoc that the Elric brothers left in their wake. To give her a chance to move on with her life, to try new things and have some fun.

It wasn’t as if she’d ever expected Ed to turn up again.

“Hey, look, Doddie . . . Ed and Winry, they’re . . .” Meant for each other? Soul-mates? Weird? All those things and more. “They’ve known each other a long time and they’ve been through a lot –”

“Yeah, yeah, so I hear. Good for them. Really, great.”

“They say he’s a rather dashing young man, too,” Garfiel mused unhelpfully. The identity of Winry’s boyfriend was an open secret in the Valley, although unlike Central, no one was especially interested in his status as a national hero. They were more likely to stare enviously at newspaper pictures of his Rockbell-built arm and leg than read the gossip that accompanied them.

Paninya, who had never considered Ed dashing in anything other than the speedy sense, was forced to agree that even so, looks-wise, he definitely had the edge on Doddie. It was just not a contest a gawky red-head with more freckles than he knew what to do with was ever going to win.

“Uh, kind of,” she said aloud.

“Great,” Doddie repeated, all the enthusiasm that wasn’t in his voice going into another vicious swing at the shin guard.

“If it didn’t work out this time, it will at another. There will be someone out there for you. In the meantime, metal-work and then a relaxing bath. That combination can soothe any troubles.” Garfiel took another philosophical sip.

Doddie brought the hammer down so hard he actually managed to flip the guard clean out of the vice. It clattered against the side of the shop and thunked into the sawdust.

The hammer followed as Doddie hurled it down. “If he's so flaming perfect, how come Rockbell has to, you know, change her entire life around him?! He comes back and suddenly she's chasing up and down the line to Central, deciding she absolutely has to have a clinic there just because it's where the great and glorious _Ed_ lives! How come he's not coming down here or going where she wants, huh? So I'm never going to get a second look, stuff that – Rockbell's a genius and she could change the whole damn world! She deserves someone who'll support her every step of the way, not some creep who makes her change all her plans and then can't even be bothered to _call her once in a while_!”

“Feel better, honey?” Garfiel asked after a moment.

“A bit,” Doddie admitted grudgingly. Sighing with exasperation, he bent down to pick up the hammer.

Paninya put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth. Then closed it again. She wanted to defend Ed. He had never asked to be sucked back into the Military and had certainly not made any demands of Winry. Not calling was almost certainly because he couldn't, not because he'd forgotten or didn't want to. Only . . . how was she supposed to explain all that when half of the reasons were state secrets and the rest were pretty damn personal. And it wasn't as if she hadn't felt much the same seeing Winry frantically trying to plan out how she could live closer to Ed. Doddie was wrong about him, she was sure of that, but it was easy to see how he could have got the wrong end of the stick and hard to see how she was going to talk him around.

Luckily, Garfiel came to the rescue. “Love's funny like that. It makes you do crazy things. But that doesn't mean they're the _wrong_ things. Crazy can work. If Miss Winry has her heart set on this boy, then that's her decision and it's her right to follow through on that. A good friend will be there to help out if it all goes wrong, not try and prove it will in advance. You don't know for sure what will happen, or even what's happening now, do you? So don't let that nasty little worm of envy make you jump to the wrong conclusion.”

Conflicting responses fought their way across Doddie's face. Paninya grabbed at the opening Garfiel had given her. “Look, don't judge Ed just like that. And trust Winry to know what she's doing. OK?”

“Fine. _Fine_.” He did not look very convinced though.

“And hey, if Ed _does_ break her heart, you can be right in line behind me to kick him in his dashing face.”

Doddie brightened considerably. “I can live with that.”

“Fabulous! Now you come on inside and I'll fix you some tea before you get back to work.” Garfiel beamed and nodded. “Would you care to join us, Miss Paninya?”

She shook her head, smiling back. “No, I'm cool. I should be getting on anyway.”

“Well drop in any time, the door's always open! Come on honey.”

As Garfiel ushered him inside, Doddie gave Paninya a half-hearted wave with the hammer. His expression was resigned but she thought they'd got through to him. Maybe not all the way through, but enough to stop any immediate problems.

That said . . .

Paninya flexed her auto-mail hand as she resumed her walk up the street. She did sincerely mean it. Oh yes. If Ed ever hurt Winry, all the alchemy in the world wouldn't be enough to save him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Jon 'Doddie' Dodds is a character I invented for the second part of this series, The Long Walk Home. He takes Winry's place as Garfiel's apprentice in this continuity since she was apprenticed to Dominic instead. I hope he doesn't come off too badly here . . .  
> * It is never stressed enough, I feel, that Winry is as much if not more of a prodigy as Ed and Al.


	32. Destructive Testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the hell did he ever do to deserve this?

Ed officially hated the North.

Three days he had been crawling through the Briggs fortress. Three. Fucking. Days. In the cold. The dark. The stink of the fumes from the generators and the gunpowder in the endless ranks of batteries. And he wasn't even half done. Every dozen metres along a gantry, he had to stop and perform a spot-analysis, scraping samples from the concrete and metal, running probe reactions to look for chemical changes or cavities within the structure of the great blocks that made up the wall. It was tedious, brain-numbing work. Which went very well with the rest of his body, which was so continually cold that he was in serious danger of losing any sense of the different between his flesh and his auto-mail.

Hour after hour, gantry after gantry, the same dull task, over and over, with exactly the same result every damn time. The Great Wall of Briggs was perfectly fine. As he could have anticipated. After all, this was Major General Armstrong's domain. Even the bricks wouldn't have dared to be out of place.

Ed wasn't sure if everyone in this freaky refrigerator was terrified of the Major General or was just as insane as her but they had to be one of the most scarily well-drilled bunches of soldiers he had ever met. On duty they were, to a person, crisp and efficient and totally unwavering even in the face of the daily snowstorms. They made Mustang's crew on their best days look like a hopeless bunch of slackers.

Off duty, they ran the kind of cut-throat black-market that could only develop in a situation where the nearest source of fresh vegetables and booze was a three-hour truck ride away. Ed was sure that, by the time he got to go home, he would be totally broke on the cups of vile, lukewarm coffee alone.

Not buying the coffee was not an option, not when it was the only source of _heat_ within a fifty kilometre radius.

What the hell had he ever done to Major General Armstrong that she would do this to him? Apart from inadvertently causing the toppling of the Military government and the reinstitution of civilian rule. Yeah. Apart from that.

He really was going to have to have a serious talk with Mustang about this whole 'watching each other's backs' thing.

Stumbling out of the unmarked grave that apparently passed for quarters in Briggs, Ed glared at the pipe-lined corridor, the harsh electric lights and the overall horrendousness of his current situation, and resigned himself to another _lovely day_ of pointless, tedious, stupid, petty –

The skinny man who had been preparing to knock on his door jumped back so quickly he nearly brained himself on the opposite wall. “Sir!” He saluted.

“Something I can do for you, Lieutenant . . . ?” Ed growled.

“Linques, sir, Lieutenant Linques.” Realising that this is perhaps _not_ the response to the question Ed was actually asking, Linques ploughed on quickly, “The Major General's compliments and she wondered if you would care to join her for her morning callisthenics? She is concerned that you have not had the time to properly observe a normal military regimen due to the pressures of your work.”

In other words: come and have a go if you think you're tough enough, shrimpy bookworm. Ed felt the vein in his temple starting to throb. “Bring it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Briggs parade ground was right on top and right in the middle of the wall, at the most exposed point on the whole damn fortress. It was to Ed's eternal relief that he discovered this was not where Major General Armstrong chose to perform her morning callisthenics. Some degree of sanity, otherwise absent from every other aspect of the place, had seen to it that the gym was placed deep inside, well away from the death-by-icicle climate. The big, bare-walled hall smelled of sweat and that particular brand of military humiliation Ed was grateful he had never had to directly suffer through.

Well, so far anyway.

There were benches along the walls, all full of Briggs personnel mostly stripped down to their vests and trousers. The rest of the space was mostly empty save for the markings on the floor, which centred around a big circle picked out in white tape. A ring, in the middle of which General Armstrong was busy trying to hack one of her officers to death.

Ed had not had a lot of contact with Captain Buccaneer. Whenever he had needed to ask for anything so far, Major Miles had been the natural point of contact. Which was A Good Thing since Miles fell quite low down on the Briggs scale of craziness. It was immediately obvious that Buccaneer, a giant of a man with the biggest auto-mail arm Ed had ever seen outside of Rush Valley, fell on the opposite end of that scale. He was grinning, actually _grinning_ as he fended off three feet of tempered steel with nothing but his bare hands. OK, one of those bare hands was a two-foot long metal trap lined with sharpened teeth but still. It was not anything to grin about given that from the look on Armstrong's face, she was actually definitely out to murder him.

They continued hacking and stabbing at each other for a few minutes, sparks and grunts of exertion flying in all directions. Then, at some signal that was obviously lost on Ed, they stopped, parted and saluted each other. “Not bad,” the Major General said evenly. She barely seemed out of breath.

“I tremble at your praise, sir,” Buccaneer retorted, still grinning. He poked at a slight cut on his collar bone. “The General gets faster every day.”

“The Captain gets slower with his advancing age. Dismissed.”

Accepting a towel tossed to him by one of the spectators, Buccaneer took his place back on the benches, giving Ed a disdainful sneer as he caught sight of him. The Major General's steely eye was not far behind.

“So.” She produced a cloth to wipe the blood of her last victim from her sabre. “The Hero of the People honours us with his presence.”

“You invited me, _sir_.” Shoving his hands in his pockets in the hope it would annoy her, Ed made a show of examining his surroundings. He noted the number of soldiers nursing bruises or cuts. “Nice death match you've got going on here.”

“It serves its purpose.”

“Yeah? What's that?”

“To toughen the body and quicken the mind.”

Ed cast another deliberate look at the battered people on the benches. “I can see that's working _great_ for you all.”

“This is Briggs.” Disappearing the cloth, the Major General planted her feet apart and rested the tip of her sabre lightly against the floor. “There is no place here for the weak or the callow. To live here is a daily struggle against the elements. It takes guts and balls beyond most men to face another enemy on top of that.” Her full lips curved in disgust. “I wouldn't expect someone coddled by the East and Central to understand.”

Thinking about the biting sand and blazing sun of the Eastern Desert and the number of times he had been chased through Central's streets by some axe-crazed lunatic, Ed was inclined to argue the point. “Yeah, I get it. You think I'm soft. Big deal. I don't have to prove anything to you, _sir_.”

“So you won't be joining me in the circle, then?” Her voice dripped with scorn.

Cricking his neck, Ed nonchalantly worked a knot out of his left shoulder. “Didn't say that, _sir_.” He grinned evilly. “Wouldn't want you to miss the chance to prove yourself against a clueless, coddled alchemist.”

OK, the insult in there might have pushed it a bit too far, going by the muttering from the audience and the twitch at the edge of Armstrong's mouth. But if she made it a contest, he was going to dish it right back at her. He unbuttoned his uniform jacket and set it neatly down on the floor. Even if the gym was not exactly any warmer than the rest of the Briggs, he figured it was better to be cold now than later because he'd got more of his clothes cut to bits than strictly necessary. Besides, she was down to her shirt-sleeves without any sign of discomfort and he did not intend to show any weakness in comparison.

He took his place on the opposite side of the ring to her and put his hands in his pockets again. “Do I get a weapon?”

“An alchemist's body _is_ a weapon, or so I'm told. Let's see if that's true!” And without any more warning, she went for him, her great sweep of platinum hair streaming out behind her like a comet tail.

She was quick. _Very_ quick. Ed felt the air part above him as he went into a drop and roll, the sabre whistling so close to his head he was sure he would be leaving some of his own hair behind. As fast as he moved behind her, she spun and stabbed again, aim square on for his right shoulder. He bent around the blade, just enough to avoid it, and jabbed at Armstrong's upper arm. She was a metre and a half away before he could connect, swiping backhandedly to drive him off.

Slash, stab, dodge, roll, jab, slash. They repeated the pattern through a couple of variations, Ed not making any real attempt to strike back as he gauged what he could of her style. Like him, her approach to sword fighting was straightforward: you aimed the pointy end at the opponent and kept going until it stuck there. Flourishes were for other people and bludgeoning through the enemy's defence was perfectly acceptable. She was not as fast as Envy or Greed, lacked the reach of Sloth or Lust and did not have Scar's sheer physical mass. But she was relentless and determined and the sabre was as much an extension of her arm as a transmuted blade would have been of his.

It also really pissed her off that he wasn't trying to hit back.

“Are you just planning on dancing around all day? Fight me properly, _Hero_!” A flurry of cuts drove him to the edge of the ring, nearly tipping him over the line.

“Whatever you say, _sir_!” Dropping on to his hands, he made a sweeping kick towards her legs. As she retreated, he powered into an outright charge, weaving left, right, then lifting his right arm suddenly to turn the sword aside. His left fist rocketed through the momentary opening, straight towards her face.

She caught his wrist at the last moment, muscles straining to twist the punch aside. They were locked for a few seconds, neither entirely sure where best to apply force.

Armstrong whipped her sabre away and slammed the pommel back against his left forearm. He yelled and wrenched free of her grip, hopping back into a defensive posture. Face a mask of growing fury, she came for him again. This time, he stood his ground, turning aside blow after blow until the gym rang with the clang-clang-clang of steel on auto-mail. There was an awful amount of strength behind Armstrong's sword arm, far more than the casual observer might have expected from someone so petite. Ed's fingers itched with the urge to transform his forearm guard into a blade before she hacked her way through it but she was not going to give him the chance.

Even so, no one could maintain that kind of strategy for very long, not without tiring. The instant Ed felt the onslaught start to slacken, he jerked his arm enough to knock the sword off course again. It was a move only someone with tireless auto-mail could have pulled off and before Armstrong could recover her aim, he lunged, grabbed a great handful of her hair, yanked, and brought his knee up into her stomach. The breath exploded from her lungs in one great gasp and she doubled over, staggering. Ed let go and backed out of reach. He was dimly aware of the audience’s silence, thick enough to spread on toast. Well, let them get a good long look at –

Armstrong's head came up. He barely had time to reconsider his position on the basis of her expression alone before she charged. She rammed him in the rib-cage with the force of a small train, her shoulder propelling him helplessly backwards.

And just when he was sure they were both going to go down together, she stopped and stepped back, a satisfied look replacing outright murderousness in an instant. Ed swayed, confused. Then he looked down. His back of his foot was fractionally on the wrong side of the line.

Shit.

“Not entirely inadequate,” Armstrong told him as her soldiers erupted in cheering, “Let's see if you've improved by this time tomorrow.”

The bottom dropped out of Ed's stomach. “Wait, what –”

“Dismissed!”

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, he lasted a couple of minutes longer. The day after that, she sliced off his right thumb and he had to go crawling to the Briggs doctor to get it reattached.

On the third day, he actually managed to knock Armstrong out of the ring, though she caught hold of his pony tail at the last second and dragged him with her.

She announced that they were going to make it the best of ten.

Ed officially hated the fucking North.


	33. Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stretch but don't always break.

“No, sorry Russell – I don't know how to get in touch with him except through General Mustang's office.” Al waved at Noah as she came in, then frowned. “Yes, that does sound like something he should hear about,” he said into the telephone receiver, “Look, how about I call the General directly and ask him to tell Ed to get in touch with you? Yeah. I'll call you back and let you know when that's likely to be. OK? Great! Speak to you soon!”

Noah went over to the living room table to pick up the book she had been reading earlier. She watched Al from the corner of her eye as he busied himself dialling General Mustang, idly wondering what was going on.

“Hi Captain Hawkeye! It's Alphonse – how are you? Yeah, I'm fine too. Um, is the Brigadier General there, please? Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I don't know how important it is – Russell Tringham, the botanic alchemist? He just called about something he thinks Ed would be interested in. Yes, up near Brina. Since Ed's still in the North, we were wondering if the General could get a message sent up to him about it? I, uh . . . I don't really know too much of the _details_ ,” and he stressed 'details' just a little bit, perhaps to indicate this was not strictly true, “but Ed would be the best person to check and see if it is something, uh, interesting. Uh huh . . . OK, sure – I'll tell Russell that and if Ed can't make it, I guess I could – well, maybe. Thanks so much, Captain! Thank you! Bye!”

He called Russell back – which seemed to involve a brief fight with the North City Telephone Exchange – and told him the message had been passed on as far as possible and to assume Ed would be coming unless he heard otherwise. After much exchanging of gossip and well-wishes, Al finally stepped away from the phone and flopped down on to the sofa next to Noah with a sigh of relief.

“What's wrong?” she asked, easily able to pick up on the signs of something afoot.

“Oh . . . I don't know really. Russell's found something up in Brina. He didn't want to say what exactly. I think he's gotten a bit paranoid about phones being tapped after hanging around us all at New Year. Or it could be he doesn't want to spoil the surprise. Hopefully Ed'll have a chance to go take a look. I wish it was easier to get in touch with him . . . but I guess that's life in the Military. We can't just expect everything to bend around because we want it to. It never did before.”

Al settled down and gazed unseeingly into the middle distance. Noah tried to concentrate on the cramped text annotating the lines and circles on the pages in front of her. Alchemists, she had learned, were never the most straight-forward of authors but this particular one seemed to delight in making opaque references and bringing up abstract concepts that did not seem remotely related to the topic at hand. Between the scattered memories inherited from the Elrics and the more lucid texts she had been studying, she could just about keep up but it was an uphill struggle.

Around about the time she was finally able to turn the page, she suddenly became aware that the language the book was written in was not one she even knew the name for, much less remembered learning. The realisation made her head spin, as always happened when she stumbled unexpectedly upon some snatch of borrowed knowledge. There was always the fear that it would flee from her conscious attention but it never did. The book did not become gibberish before her eyes. Well, no more so than it already was.

Al was still staring at nothing. He could sit very still when he wanted to, both of the brothers could. It usually meant they were concentrating on their work, or that they were trying to solve a particularly vexing problem. She noted the lines creasing his forehead ever so slightly, the ghost of a frown. Clearly it was something that required a lot of puzzling out.

Another page of the author's incomprehensible prose style and she was about ready to give up on him. She could follow the reaction he was building up, even guess about the end result but his reasoning for jumping from one component to the next was lost on her. Not for the first time, she felt like a stranger in an alien land, lost amidst the twisting corners of the alchemist's mind.

Besides, Al's sombre stillness was becoming a distraction.

“What's wrong?” she asked again, turned her head to look at him directly.

He blinked, wide bronze eyes taking a while to focus on her. “Hmm?”

She just kept looking at him, knowing she would not actually need to say anything more.

“Ah . . .” Al scrubbed at his hair, face crumpling with . . . she was not quite sure what emotion, exactly. “Sorry. It's nothing really.”

Noah closed the book, firmly shutting the author away in his own little world and making it clear that Al had her full attention.

He smiled sheepishly. “OK, fine. It's just . . . Russell called me to ask for Ed. Of course he did. I mean, Ed's the genius in the family.” He said that with a laugh, quite genuine. “And it's not as if I can just bill the Military for travel expenses all the way up north now. I just wish that . . . I wish that I could still be at brother's side. He's out there now, being the dog of the Military, running around doing errands for the General . . . on his own. I'm not there with him any more. Maybe I never will be again.” His fingers played over one another restlessly. “Is it selfish to not like the idea I won't be part of his adventures any more?”

There was so much overwrought remorse in the question that it took Noah a few seconds to phrase any kind of answer. Quite unbidden, she found herself imagining the two brothers as two points on a line, like one of the needlessly deconstructed symbols in the book. For so many years, that line had stayed ridiculously short, the two of them basically living out of each other's pockets, so to speak. Then it had been stretched further than anything was ever supposed to go, from Gate to Gate across worlds, only to snap back and bring them together again. Once more, they were constant companions, on unfamiliar roads but comfortable in their shared adventuring.

And now the line was stretched again. Only this time, not so far that the ends were invisible to one another. Al could as good as see the adventure he was missing out on, could certainly imagine it more clearly than he ever could have when Ed was trapped in Noah's world. The step to imagining himself being at his brother's side was surely a small one. Tantalisingly so.

“It makes sense,” she told him simply, “He probably feels the same way.”

“Yeah . . . it just doesn't feel right, does it?”

And she knew he was asking because some part of his brother lingered in her mind, some part that he might be able to get a little reassurance from. “No, it doesn't.”

With the impulsiveness she had come to know and love, he reached over and hugged her tight.

“You know you could always go on some adventures of your own,” she suggested once he let go again.

“Yeah, I know . . . it would still feel strange . . . being on my own.”

“You don't have to be on your own.” That baffled him as much as she expected it would. “I _am_ your apprentice,” she explained patiently, “Doesn't that mean I should follow where you lead?”

Bafflement transmuted to understanding which in turn became joy. It was a much more satisfying reaction than the author of the book could ever have described.

Nothing would ever replace the line between Al and Ed, nothing could ever change what it meant to them both. But the thing that Noah had found with lines in alchemy was that it was always possible to start drawing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For all the factoid collectors out there, 'gibberish' possibly comes from the Latinised name of an 8th Century alchemist. The things you learn on Wikipedia . . .


	34. Recriminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days Mustang wonders why Fullmetal even bothers with phones.

“So how have you been enjoying the north, Fullmetal?”

The rasp of a drawn breath travelled down the phone-line to brush almost delicately against Mustang's ear. He braced himself and gently distanced himself from the receiver.

“ _YOU BASTARD! TWO WEEKS! TWO FUCKING WEEKS CRAWLING AROUND INSIDE THAT STUPID FUCKING WALL! TWO FUCKING WEEKS WITH THAT CRAZY WOMAN TRYING TO CUT MY HEAD OFF EVERY MORNING!”_

Some days, he truly wondered why Fullmetal bothered with phones at all. The thought made him nostalgic. It really was like old times. “I'll take it you won't be recommending Briggs as this year's must-see holiday destination.”

“ _Bastard,”_ Ed repeated at a more reasonable volume, _“Next time you need to make sure it's not about to fall down, find someone else. Otherwise I'll make sure it_ does _fall down!”_

“Careful, Fullmetal. It's an important part of our nation's defences and a bastion of Military pride. I know you won't want people to think you aren't keen to see it continue.” Code, roughly speaking, for 'watch your mouth kid, this isn't a safe line.'

“ _Yeah but that doesn't mean I have to be the one to go and test it! Or get given an early haircut by Major General Stab-Happy!”_

More nostalgia, as Mustang remembered himself as a much younger man, haring around the Armstrong Manor gardens with Olivier in hot pursuit. He wondered if he could get away with telling Fullmetal it was a rite of passage. Probably not.

“She specifically asked for you, as you well know. And your seal of approval carries weight. There weren't a lot of grounds to refuse her request.”

“ _You're_ _the master of getting out of assignments_ _you_ _don't want! You weren't even trying, were you?!”_

“Take it as complement that she wanted to get a better look at you. She probably wanted to put the Hero of the People to a proper test.”

“ _Oh, sure. 'Let's see how long he'll last being frozen to death and having daily sword-fights where he doesn't get a sword!' Because that's a frickin' fair test!”_

“Fullmetal . . .” Mustang began, knowing the answer before he asked, “You know you could have just transmuted your own sword, right . . . ?”

“ _Well I could of but –”_ He trailed off into muted muttering.

“What was that?”

“ _She made all these comments about how pathetic alchemists are, OK?! Using alchemy – it'd have just been proving her point!”_

“So you just let her keep attacking you with _her_ sword . . . ?”

“ _I fought back! Stupid frickin' crazy – it's not even proper callisthenics!”_

“I'm amazed you know what callisthenics _are_.”

“ _Says the one-eyed desk-jockey!”_

Across the office, Hawkeye cleared her throat, glanced pointedly at the clock, then at the scribbled note on Mustang's desk. He smiled lazily at her and leant back in his chair. “So can I take it that you have successfully completed your assigned task to the best of your ability and confirmed that our Northern Border is safe from the Drachman horde?”

“ _Yeah, yeah. It'd be cheaper just to stick General Murder-You-All out there in a deck chair and let her guard the border on her own, though.”_

Another image to keep him amused. “I'll be sure to suggest it at the next budget review.” He might even do so, just to see what the joke would do to a room full of ranking officers still chafing under an unaccustomed degree of accountability.

“ _Seriously Mustang, this is exactly the kind of shit I didn't want to have to deal with.”_ And it was not the bluster and fury of the precocious child prodigy but the quieter, resigned reprimand of a young man who had suffered too much for the sake of other people’s agendas.

Mustang tried to think of a way to explain that would not involve admitting aloud that Olivier Armstrong had blind-sided him. Which was, in itself, not particularly surprising given her total immunity to his usual means of getting forewarning of ‘this kind of shit’. “That’s the military life,” he said, hoping Fullmetal would give him the chance to explain properly later, “You can’t have it all your way all the time.”

“ _No kidding. Reckon I can get my own way over a hot shower and getting somewhere where I don't need to wear three layers of fur just to survive?”_ To Mustang's relief, he could hear Ed's smile. _“Let me know if you want a souvenir, by the way. I'll bet there's a snowdrift around here with your name on it . . .”_

“Actually, your homecoming will have to wait. We've received a request to send an alchemist to one of the northern farming towns. Brina – I believe you are familiar with it?”

“ _Yeah. A bit,”_ Fullmetal agreed cautiously, _“What's the problem?”_

“Just some point of local interest, I believe. Since you're in the area already, I'd like you to take a look. Let me know if it turns out to be anything worth the trip.”

“ _Fine. I'll get the report on Briggs posted and catch the morning train up that way. Now I gotta go find a call-box and ring Winry since the son-of-a-bitch radio operator here wouldn't put me through on the military line. Tell Hawkeye to shoot you in the leg for me.”_

The line went dead. Replacing the receiver on its cradle, Mustang picked at his shirt sleeve with a distant smirk.

“Everything all right, sir?” Hawkeye asked, pen scratching across the document she was working on.

“I'd say so. Fullmetal sends his regards, by the way. He suggests you shoot me for exposing him to the Fort Briggs brand of camaraderie.”

Hawkeye nodded absently. “Maybe later, sir.”


	35. What Lies Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be wary of what you find in underground laboratories.

“Gimme a break. 'You won't believe it til you see it'? You any idea of the kind of things I've seen?”

“All right, good point. But . . . just humour me, will you?”

“This'd better be good, Tringham.”

“It is! Honestly, you need to see this.”

“Need to see _what_?!” Ed practically shouted it, although the volume was less to do with frustration and more to do with tugging his coat sleeve free of a grasping branch.

“All right! Look, after what you told us at New Year, I started thinking. You said that when you came back from . . . over there –” Russell waved at the sky. “– Al and the Flame Alchemist and everyone, they all appeared in places where you were fairly sure that this 'gate of all alchemy' of yours had been opened in the past –”

“Gate of Truth – and it's not mine!”

“Yes, well. It got me thinking: why did you appear in Brina? This place is nowhere! The railway only got here about twenty years ago. So what the hell ever happened here to do with really powerful alchemy?”

“Huh.” Ed frowned, rubbing his chin. “That _is_ a good point. Out of the way place like this . . . I guess if you were trying to do something taboo, this'd be the perfect place to set up shop and not get noticed.”

“Exactly! So I started looking around where we found you . . . after I found where we found you again.”

Ed snorted and skirted around another tree. “You found something?”

“Took a while but I finally – look, it's just over here . . .”

With the ease of someone who had done the same thing on many previous occasions, Russell swung off the path and scrambled down a sharp drop into a small clearing. Gritting his teeth against the urge to thump his guide right in the stupid haircut, Ed followed him down.

The clearing showed signs of recent and extensive transmutation, which had presumably culminated in the big hole in the ground in the middle. Ed looked down into it, examining the rough stone steps while Russell dug an oil lamp out of his pack. “Let me guess: underground alchemy lab?”

“Right first time. There's a long tunnel down there that winds under the forest for about half a mile and comes out in a big chamber more or less right under the place we found you.” He handed Ed a second lamp. “There's not a lot left in there but I think if anyone can figure out what was going on down there, it's you.”

The complement was a surprise. “Don't tell me you don't have any theories?”

“A few but I'm willing to bet you'll dismantle them all in five minutes.” Russell shrugged and led the way down the steps.

 

* * *

 

 

As underground tunnels went, it was not a bad effort. Obviously, whoever had built it had done so with a transmutation but they had also made it to last. It was damp and claustrophobic, yet the structure was mostly sound and no questing tree roots had broken in as far as Ed could see.

“So,” Russell said, breaking the silence, “How's life in Central?”

“Fine. It's fine.” Ed frowned at the rough arches bracing the roof, trying to gauge how much energy had gone into their construction.

“The Military job going all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You and Winry managing with the whole distance thing?”

“Ye – what the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to make small-talk to avoid thinking about the fact we're walking deeper and deeper underground,” the other man admitted through gritted teeth.

“Oh. Right. Uh. Fletcher doing OK?”

“Yes, he's fine. Busy running the farm.”

“You know, I never took you two for the rural types.”

“Farm, research project, more or less the same thing. We've got a couple of fields stuffed with crop plants we're trying to harden up for growing this far north.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“It is if we can get it to work. Which is dependent on Fletcher not getting too distracted by Emily.”

“Emily?”

“Girl from the next farm over. Keeps baking him pies and bringing him lunch. He gave her a bunch of flowers he'd transmuted from weeds the other week. I think it could be getting serious.”

Ed cracked a smile. “Guess he's growing up too.”

“It happens, apparently.”

“What about you? Found anyone who doesn't mind your dumb fashion sense?”

Russell put a self-conscious hand through his fringe. “This from the man who avoids barbers like the plague. And no. There isn't anyone yet.” He gave a slightly sly smile. “Maybe I should get my arm cut off and try to meet a good-looking auto-mail mechanic?”

“Just let me know which arm – _huh_.”

The passage suddenly widened out and then opened into the chamber Russell had described. It was roughly circular, made of transmuted stone and compacted dirt, slightly domed, maybe three times Ed's height at its tallest point. There really wasn't much else left other than that. A few bits of rotten wood and rusted metal. Broken glass that glinted faintly in the lamp-light.

“I didn't really stick around long enough to get a proper look the first time I came down here,” Russell explained, holding his lamp higher, “but I think the most interesting thing is that there are carvings in the stone. Most of them seem to be full of earth.” He drew a finger over the nearest to show what he meant. Sure enough, grey/black soil flaked away from groves in the grey/black rock.

Ed brushed at another patch of the wall, uncovering a tracery of lines and curves. His first thought was of Ishballan alchemy but the pattern was wrong, too looping and curving in the wrong way. Still there was definitely something familiar about it . . .

“Any thoughts?” Russell hovered expectantly at Ed's elbow.

“Yeah . . . maybe. I've seen these symbols before . . .” He clicked his fingers. “This is Lebian alchemy, or a derivation of it.”

“Lebian?”

“Civilisation out East. Ever heard of Siam-sid?”

“That's an old children's story, isn't it? The lost desert city, doomed by the search for the Philosopher's Stone . . .”

“Yeah. Al and I researched it a couple of times based on stuff we found in Dad's library. Lebis was a real place, an ancient civilisation that died out thousands of years ago. The story's basically what you'll have heard. There are a couple of variations, some just talk about Siam-sid, the capital, others say it was the whole country that died in a single night to create the Stone. I think it got confused with other stories about searching for the stone over time . . . Dante said something about . . . anyway, doesn't matter. We came across a couple of fragments of Lebian text, some transmutation circles. Nothing really useful. But this is definitely the same set of symbols . . .”

“I think I see common directional elements with some of the ancient eastern alchemists,” Russell mused, holding his lamp closer to the wall. “A common root?”

“Or some of Lebians escaped and came west.”

“How about I start working round from the other side and we can see what the opposition points are?”

“Good plan,” Ed agreed distractedly. It was not just the kind of script he was uncovering that was familiar. The arrangement too nagged at his mind. He could have anticipated taboo alchemy, the signs of human transmutation, but this was not that. There were elemental markers that were all wrong for action upon a human body. They almost looked more like –

 _Clunk_.

Ed spun in time to see Russell spring backwards like a scolded cat. “What was that?”

“I stepped on something!” Russell waved his lamp around frantically, casting wild shadows across the chamber. “I think –”

The array ignited in a flare of stored energy, red light bursting up through the floor as whatever part of the circle had been under the phoney flagstone fell into place. They both dived out of the way, flinging themselves towards the exit.

The reaction fizzled and died, petering out in a flurry of sparks.

Russell sat up, his hair standing on end with static. Ed got to his feet slowly, waving away wisps of smoke. They exchanged glances.

“Guess it ran out of charge after so long down here . . .”

“Yes . . . that'll be it.” Russell did not sound convinced.

Ed strode across the chamber, trying to get a sense of what the array had been intended to do. He'd not caught enough of a look at it to get more than a rough idea of the components and it had left only dim scorch marks in the soil covering the floor. It was only now that he had heard part of it move that he realised there _was_ a floor, not just rough earthen ground beneath their feet. That was strange, actually. How covered everything was in soil when there was no sign of damage to the roof . . .

“Ed!”

He was already moving by the time Russell's cry reached him, jumping away as the soil under him heaved upwards in a great black bulge. All across the chamber, the dirt was pouring from the walls and sweeping across the floor, a tide of whispering movement. More blobs rose up, a dozen of them, rapidly growing arms and legs and heaving upright one after the other. They were childish imitations of the human form, badly proportioned and crude. But each had a pair of glowing white eyes and the faint tracery of alchemical symbols ghosting across their bodies, and each was turning to stare unblinkingly at Ed and Russell.

“Aww hell,” Ed muttered.

The nearest monster sprang into motion, raising its long arms to show the wicked spikes that had formed at the end. It lunged at Ed, aiming a stab at his chest. He dodged and flung his lamp into what passed for its face. One clap later and he had a blade to parry its next blow, hardened earth screeching along the edge of the auto-mail sword. Following through, Ed weaved around the creature's attempt to bore a hole in his head and, yelling, drove the blade into its chest.

The soil parted, cleaved through – and the thing kept on coming, unperturbed by the damage.

“Oh _shit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * So, going by the Curse of the Crimson Elixir game, it seems that Lebis fulfils the same role in the anime!verse that Xerxes fills in the manga, at least insofar that it was a mighty civilisation lost in a single night due to the Stone. Of course, Lebis was an ancient civilisation and it appears to have died out thousands of years before the start of the story, meaning that it can't be the same 'fabled lost civilisation in the East' that Dante refers to having fallen due to Hohenheim of Light's quest for the stone. More on that interesting bit of continuity in future stories . . .  
> * For those interested, because it never gets said outright, Russell and Fletcher left Xenotime to pursue their research after a few happy years working as lemon farmers.  
> * Hitting Russell in the haircut probably wouldn't help. It'd just bounce back . . .


	36. The Golem Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or how to survive an adventure with Edward Elric.

Russell danced around one soil monster only to find another coming straight for him. He flung himself aside and the spike intended to gut him ploughed into the first creature's back. This did not bother it in the slightest and when the second _thing_ had pulled its arm out, they both turned to pursue him.

Across the room, Ed was a whirl of steel and coat-tails, a weird figure in the erratic light from his abandoned lamp, encircled by six of the looming black shapes.

The other six were coming for Russell.

Without a weapon, all he could do was run and dodge and the chamber was not big enough for him to do that indefinitely. The creatures were not especially fast movers but there were too many of them and they had too long a reach – they were going to get him eventually and –

Holy Paracelsus, he was going to _die_!

Spikes flew at his face from two sides and he skidded across the flagstones, nearly losing his footing in the rush to avoid being pinned. Ed cartwheeled past and landed a solid, two-footed kick on a bulbous black head. The creature pitched over with a thump, limps flailing. The moment Ed was clear of it, however, it just got back up and resumed its remorseless advance. The things were just not going to give up –

For a second, Russell could see the wall behind the creature and he caught sight of the faint glimmering passing along the lines in the transmuted stone. Then Ed ploughed into him, carrying him out of the way of a savage downward blow that would have smeared his brains across the ground.

“The walls,” he gasped as they slammed against yet another monster's flank and jumped in opposite directions to avoid it's retaliation.

Ed glanced quickly around, seeing what Russell had seen: the trap array had triggered a reaction in the patterns on the walls, in the symbols that mirrored those around the monsters' necks.

“Keep them off me for a minute!” Ed yelled.

He was joking. He _had_ to be joking. “What?! How am I supposed to do that?! Grow a tree at them?!”

“Yes!”

Oh great.

Ed clapped and pounded the floor. The flagstones heaved for a moment, just enough to stagger the creatures and give Russell an opening to leap toward the tunnel they had come in through. As quickly as he could, he pulled a pen knife from his pocket and began furiously carving at the transmuted earth, all too aware of the creatures recovering in his peripheral vision.

OK, OK – circle. But to create what? He couldn't just grow plants from nothing and he didn't even have so much as a seed to hand. All he had was soil and rock and –

Soil. Earth. Like the creatures. Maybe he could – yes, that could work.

Lines grew quickly under his knife, the array taking shape. Just the governing element, then –

He rolled, seconds ahead of the driving spike. The creature's burning white eyes turned to track him, their blank fire chilling him to his soul.

“Tringham!” Ed bellowed, “Hurry up!”

Trying very hard not to think about anything other than weights and mass and measurements, Russell used the creature's arm as a pivot, swung under its flailing attempt to knock his head off and slapped his hand to the array.

Bursts of green energy exploded in an arc across the chamber, driving barbed daggers of fused soil up through the loosened flagstones. They pierced the creatures left, right and centre – definitely not enough to harm them but enough to hold them in place for a few moments. Ed did not hesitate. He was at the wall in seconds, hands questing across the glowing script, searching for the vital intersections.

Russell saw him get there but anything more disappeared in a blast of red pain and stars. The creature right on top of him had avoided being trapped and it effortlessly smashed him away from his array. Without him to guide it, the reaction lost focus, the barbs decaying almost immediately. He landed hard, crunching into the side of the tunnel, the lamp jarred from his grip. Blind animal panic caught in his throat. He wanted to cry out, to scream for Ed's help but not a sound came. The monster loomed above him, eyes still fixed and merciless as it lifted an arm for the killing strike –

There was flash of lightning. A screech of tortured stone. A smell of burning dust.

The creature stopped. Shuddered. One by one, the symbols on its chest flickered and died. The light in its eyes popped out of existence. And it melted, slopping down into a muddy puddle.

Russell finally remembered how to breathe again.

“Tringham? You OK?” Ed appeared, lamp in hand, dirty and disarranged but otherwise intact. He squinted down at Russell with concern.

Russell managed a croak of acknowledgement and tried to get up. Everything hurt. A lot.

“Hey, take it easy!” Putting out a supporting hand, Ed helped him into a slightly more dignified sitting position. “Is anything broken?”

Honestly, he was not sure, but since nothing ground or hurt more when he moved, Russell guessed not. “Don't think so . . .” The words wheezed through his bruised chest. “Did . . . did you get them all?”

“Yeah, they're all goo. Good job with the spikes.”

“Glad . . . to help.” Russell felt himself start to shake. He tried to stop but that just made it worse.

A concerned expression on his face, Ed hunched down to look him in the eye. “Russell?”

“S-sorry, j-just . . . those things . . . they were going to kill us . . . weren't they?”

Ed grinned viciously. “They never stood a chance.”

“Maybe not . . . but . . . guess I'm j-just not as used to anyone trying to . . . kill me . . .”

Patting him awkwardly on the shoulder, Ed straightened. “It's not something you get used to,” he said softly, “Just something you . . . I don't know . . . get able to ignore after a while.” He reached down to haul Russell up. “Come on. You'll want to see this.”

Stumbling after Ed, Russell picked his way around the sinister black slicks dotting the floor. The air stank of damp dirt and . . . another scent, bitter and horribly familiar.

A section of wall had been scorched and broken open by Ed's alchemy, breaking the array and revealing – something. The hint of another chamber. As they got closer and Ed turned up his lamp, Russell saw that it was exactly that, another room, much smaller, barely a metre square. The most immediately arresting feature was a tank of dirty glass and even dirtier brass, as tall as a man. Ed reached in and wiped more of the grime from a patch that he had clearly already started clearing. “What do you think?” he asked, stepping aside so Russell could get in to look.

Russell peered at the glass, at the thin, slightly pink film coating the inside. “That . . . looks it was holding red water . . . you can see where it's started to crystallise in the bottom.”

“Right. I think it was powering those things. Lucky it wasn't anywhere near full or we'd have had to deal with a lot more of them.”

“So . . . this place . . . it was all to generate those . . . things.”

“Golems.”

He stared at Ed in astonishment. “That's impossible.”

Ed shrugged. “More than homunculi? Those arrays –” He waved at the walls. “– pretty sure they're rooted in earth-moving principles. We just saw it! People made of mud.”

“But the energy you'd need to animate . . . we've got evidence of that too, haven't we?”

“Right. Don't know if it would be enough to summon the Gate but . . . obviously someone was messing around with seriously dangerous alchemy here.”

“There's more in there.” Russell squinted past the tank. “Hey, give me the lamp a moment, will you?”

Wordlessly, Ed handed it over. Russell climbed through the opening, reaching for the box he could see in the corner. It was an old wooden chest, aged and with rusted fittings, but not rotten. The shell of a lantern sat next to it, long since past use. Recently heightened paranoia made Russell look carefully all around the chest before getting too close. There were no obvious signs of a trap – but then there wouldn't be, would there? More tellingly, perhaps, the room was without the coating of black earth that had marked the outer chamber and produced – well, he was not entirely sold on the idea but Ed was right, golem _was_ a good description.

The box was not actually locked. The lid opened with a pained groan, the hinges stiff and brittle. “What's in there?” Ed called from behind him, a shifting light suggesting he'd taken the time to fetch the other lamp from where Russell had dropped it.

Russell knelt down, ignoring as best he could his protesting joints, and started picking out the contents. “A coat, I think.” He gently unfolded the bundle of grey fabric. It was in pretty good condition all told, the silver ornaments on the collar still shiny enough to gleam. “And glassware. Bottles and flasks. Empty . . . no, wait, this has got soil in it and this one . . . sand.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” He poked the lump of metal right at the bottom of the chest. “I think this might have been a crucible once. Before someone smashed it flat.”

“Come out, let me look.”

They exchanged places, Russell carrying the coat out with him. While Ed poked around in the chest, he took the time to examine the garment properly. It was a great coat cut in a very old-fashioned style, the collar high, the sleeves coming off a half-mantle that stopped just short of the rib-cage. The epaulettes suggested military . . .

“Pretty standard equipment.” He looked up so see Ed climbing through the hole, tucking the bottles of soil and sand into his pocket and patting them. “We should analyse these samples, find out if there's anything special about them. The coat tell you anything?”

“Only that whoever owned it, their fashion sense was prehistoric.” Russell looked around nervously. “Look . . . uh . . . can we get out of here? I just . . .”

“Sure,” Ed said quickly, “I can get Mustang to sort out a proper investigation . . . what is it?”

Russell stopped halfway through folding the coat up again, at the sensation that he was bending more than just fabric. He pushed his fingers inside, feeling around until he caught the edge of the pocket – and of a sheet of paper. As gently as possible, he teased the document out into the open.

The paper was foxed and delicate but otherwise intact. Wordlessly, Russell handed his discovery over to Ed, who frowned and unfolded it. “Huh . . . Warrant of travel, issued from South Command . . . signed Colonel someone-or-other . . . dated . . .” The frown deepened. “This thing's over _fifty_ _years_ old.”

“Meaning so is this.” Russell held up the coat. “And . . . I guess this whole place, too.”

“Maybe,” Ed allowed, “Or could be that whoever built it picked that up later on.”

“Well . . . l-lets decide which when we're out of here.”

“Good plan.” Ed grinned again. “Race you?”


	37. On the Trail Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because what is life without mysteries to solve?

“ _Golems? You sure about that, Fullmetal?”_ Even over the hissing phone-line that was the best North Headquarters could manage, Mustang's scepticism was palpable.

“No,” Ed hissed through gritted teeth, “It was probably the local postmaster in a mask he'd cut out of a cereal box. Of course I'm freaking sure!”

To give him a little – a _very little_ – credit, Mustang did not press the point beyond that. He listened in silence to the rest of Ed's report, waiting until he was quite sure it was finished before saying anything. _“Interesting. I will have to find someone to send back there. A method for creating a functional golem could be a very useful thing to have.”_

“Not if it takes red water or worse to power it.”

“ _Agreed. In any case, we should try to trace the alchemist responsible. This travel warrant you found, did it specify the destination?”_

“I had to look it up. It was to an old border fort out East. On what was the border, fifty years back. Near Giribaz?”

“ _Those forts were dismantled back when I was a kid . . . still, could be worth a look. I can try_ _finding_ _information on who that warrant was issued to but the records would likely be held at South Headquarters. I'll arrange for you to arrive there in two weeks time. That should give you long enough to dig up whatever there is to dig up in Giribaz.”_

“Wait, wait – you're sending me right the way around the country?! Don't you have other people that could go to South City?”

“ _It's cheaper to send you. And it will be warmer down there than Central this time of year, so you might at least thank me for that. And in any case, if you go down to South, you'll have to come back through Rush Valley . . .”_

So of course that decided that.

 

* * *

 

Giribaz was a wash-out as far as information went. With no fort left to check the records at, Ed was forced to resort to the tried and trust method of traipsing from village to village looking for signs of historical weirdness. As much experience as he had chasing rumours, this time he didn't even have a rumour. There were a couple of places where the locals had stories of monsters that _might_ have been about golems but only might. Stories about disappeared villages deep in the forests could have been _something_ but he had no reason at all to link them to the discovery at Brina. Those disappearances could have just as easily been disease or bandits.

The nearest Ed got to a lead was in a tiny hamlet where a bespectacled old lady took an interest in the date on the warrant. She vaguely recalled an expedition that had passed through when she was a child, heading out into the Eastern desert. She remembered being quite struck by the pair of handsome young men in charge and their talk of a lost city of wonders, but not a great deal else.

At least it did suggest someone had been interested in Lebis around the right time, though how that same someone might have ended up leaving their coat in a secret laboratory far away in the north was anyone's guess.

 

* * *

 

Lieutenant Colonel Lockheed of South Command greeted Ed with raised eyebrows and a certain amount of curiosity. He listened with interest to the threadbare story, asking pointed questions about what kind of alchemy was involved. Ed, who had intended to at least obfuscate on the finer details of what he was investigating, ended up telling the older man everything about the golem attack and the presence of Lebian script in the lab. It quickly became clear that Lockheed had a keen eye for detail and an interest in novel methods of performing transmutations that Ed was sure made him a fantastic researcher. He wondered what the guy had done to end up stuck as a staff officer.

That investigator's instinct extended to the documents held at South Headquarters. “You're in luck,” Lockheed told him as they walked along to the records room, “We've probably undertaken the second most thorough assessment of stored military paperwork in recent memory. You might recall a certain incident a few years ago that necessitated a degree of redecoration in this building . . .”

Ed winced and nodded, remembering exactly how much of the Headquarters his teacher had propelled through the roof during her one-woman war against the place.

“While we were moving the records room to make way for the building work, I took the opportunity to sort through the accumulated strata of old files. Everything has been carefully ordered and dated. If we hold the corresponding documentation for this warrant, we should certainly be able to find it. Although,” the Colonel added as he unlocked the door, “there is something a little off with the warrant itself.”

Scanning the ranks of shelves and filing cabinets stretching ahead of them with amazement that so many fit into a single room, Ed asked him what he meant.

“The wording uses the phrasing, the bearer of this document. Which is appropriate but even back then was usually accompanied by the bearer's name. An open travel warrant would have been a gift to a thief, which is why you almost never find them without some indication of who would be expected to be holding it.”

“Huh.”

“Anyway, the relevant section is down here.”

There were more documents than Ed expected, most of them stupefyingly mundane. Searching through them, he and Lockheed did not find an counterpart to the travel warrant but they were able to confirm that the Colonel whose signature was on the end had definitely been posted at South HQ at the right time and that he had been a State Alchemist. There was even a photograph.

“That's him, Colonel Sopwith. The first Thunder Alchemist.” Lockheed pointed to the image of a short man with a bristling moustache, looking awkward in his long dark coat with the high collar. In fact, all seven of the people in the picture looked awkward, as if none of them wanted to be there and their uncomfortable uniforms were not helping. “Quite an infamous group, this.”

Ed pushed aside the ledger he had been flicking through and took a closer look. “What d'you mean, infamous?”

“They're all State Alchemists and I believe every single one of them was stripped of their certification.”

“All of them? Wow.” Visions of Basque Grand and Zolf Kimblee danced in Ed's mind. “That must have taken a lot.”

“I'm not entirely sure of all the details,” Lockheed admitted, “Anna Helmont, the Black Fire Alchemist, she was the most infamous of the lot.” He indicated a tall, sneering woman at the back of the group. “Turfed out for being too crazy by half. The Drowning Earth Alchemist –” An older man with thick eyebrows and a squint. “–he shot a General's son in a duel.”

“He specialised in earth-based alchemy?” That would fit with golems, and while Ed had a hard time imagining anyone ever remembering him as a 'handsome young man', it did not necessarily rule him out from having been part of that expedition in some capacity.

“Yes but he was a distinctly average alchemist. I've studied his work, it really is nothing special. The programme was a lot less discerning in those days.”

“What about this guy?” Ed pointed to the youngest person in the group, a willowy man with fair hair and a sharp face. He was probably the closest to handsome of the lot, if you went for the Russell Tringham's of the world.

“Ah.” Lockheed smiled. “Now that is the Silver Bullet Alchemist. Jack Crowley. I've studied his work too and it _is_ something special. Quite brilliant. He specialised in compression and projection, transmuting projectiles and propelling them with eruptions of super-heated air. They called him 'Silver Bullet' because it was said he could put a hole in just about anything, no matter how heavily armoured. The circumstances of his expulsion from the State Alchemists are quite mysterious but . . . if I remember correctly . . .” He reached for a box of received orders. “Yes, here we are. The order confirming his dismissal was received three days before that travel warrant was issued.”

“And it doesn't say why he was thrown out?”

“No. Which probably means . . . hmm . . . either that it was political or that he was caught doing something taboo.”

Picking up the photo again, Ed studied Jack Crowley for a few moments. There was intelligence in those narrowed eyes. And a downward cast to the expression that suggested more unhappiness than just being forced to pose for the camera. “You think maybe Sopwith sneaked him a warrant so he could get away East?”

Lockheed laid his hands, palm-up on the table. “It is a possibility. Though not one I know how to test.”

Ed leant back in his chair. No. Unless they uncovered more at the lab in Brina, there was just not going to be enough to work with. Not unless they mounted their own expedition to the lost city of Siam-sid, which he could not quite see Mustang agreeing to.

“It's a shame, you know,” Lockheed mused, “Crowley could have been a truly revolutionary alchemist if he had been given the chance to expand his theories to wider applications. But I think even without being striped of his certification, he would not actually have gone on to greatness. His wife died very young, you know. I’ve not been able to find a single thing he wrote after that.”

The sadness in Crowley's face . . . the intelligence in his eyes . . . the Gate opened in Brina . . .

“Yeah,” Ed said hollowly, “Losing someone like that . . . it'll do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * As far as this is concerned, something approaching the plot of the Curse of the Crimson Elixir happened off screen while the main story was happening in the first FMA anime. Jack Crowley presumably met his end in a slightly different fashion but the Philosopher's Stone in Siam-sid was still lost.  
> * Lieutenant Colonel Lockheed (the Razor Wind Alchemist) appears as usual by the kind permission of [The_Dancing_Walrus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus)


	38. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a complicated idea.

The damp and furry body squirmed in Al's arms, trying to get away even as the rain came down harder. Al bundled his coat around them both as best he could, grimacing as fat drops of water slunk down inside his collar. “Hey, hey,” he soothed, “Come on. It's not far now and there's really not any other cover except me around here.” This was true. There were trees at the grave yard and trees near the Rockbell house but not an awful lot in between. At a pinch they could have sheltered under a hedge but that was really a last-ditch plan. One that likely would have involved an actual ditch, so there was another reason to get a move on.

The cat seemed to get the message. She nestled down inside his coat and made herself as small as possible. Al sighed in relief and focused on getting home as quickly as possible.

Home. The thought was automatic and strange all at once. Just like the way he looked out at the rain-swept fields of Resembool and thought of France. He had grown up here, this place and its weather were his baseline for normal and yet his brain leaped to make a comparison with an entirely other world.

Resembool _was_ home. The Rockbell house was home too, by any reasonable measure of 'home'. But Ed wasn't there and Winry wasn't there and there was a part of Al that would always think about the charred, overgrown remains of the Elric house under the burnt stump that would never again shelter anyone from the rain. The third of October . . . Ed had made the day they left a promise to himself, fixing the sight of their childhood burning to the ground inside his watch as if that alone would be enough to drive him to go through on all their plans. Al had never needed to do that. Through all his confusion and doubt while stuck in the armour, the memory of that final obliteration of their childhood stayed with him. There was a part of him that would always _know_ his home was gone.

The cat mewed softly. He smiled, doing what little he could to shush and reassure her. Hopefully Granny Pinako would know who she belonged to or else would not mind if she stayed with them for a few days, just long enough to make sure she was OK. Den wouldn't mind, being as soft a dog as there ever was.

It was a pity that even now Al could not really keep a pet of his own. Not if he really was going to go and have adventures of his own. There was nothing stopping him doing so after all and there was so much of the world he wanted to see – no, that wasn't quite right. There was so much of the world he wanted to see _again_ and this time touch and taste and smell it too. And if Noah really was happy to come with him, he would have someone to share that with even if Ed was off who-knew-where helping out the Brigadier General.

Would he ever be able to actually settle down properly? That was actually an option now. He could become a jobbing alchemist, or a researcher at a university, or even give it all up and start a farm if he wanted. He could make a new home for himself.

But the longer he thought about it, the more he was sure he _didn't_ want that. Any of that. Not now. Not yet. Eventually, maybe. But not yet. There were so many other things to do first. So many new experiences to be had.

Which of course made him think of Mika, which made his heart – and other parts of his body – do strange things. Elrics did not cope well with the idea of never seeing those close to them again. A truism for the ages, that, experimentally proved. There was nothing either of them could do about that now, though Al did wish they had had the presence of mind to stage some sort of great escape from Central before the whims of international diplomacy could have separated them.

Next time, like they had promised each other. Next time they would seize the day, whoever was there to seize it with them.

Al shifted his arms and felt the letter inside his coat pocket dig into his side. He winced, hoping that it would not be ruined by the weather's attempts to soak him through. If he'd have been smart, he would have left it in the postbox but he had been halfway down the road and halfway through reading it before he had registered the clouds massing on the horizon.

'Alphonse Elric, Resembool'. That was what the envelope had said, pretty much. After all, what else was someone going to write, who didn't know the exact details of his family arrangements? The letter was signed in one flowing hand from Lady Penelope Handley-Paige and in another, more cramped style from Dr Martin Euler. They were members of the League of Independent Alchemists – 'members' was the word they used though back in Central he'd heard they were pretty much at the top of the League's loose hierarchy. They were writing to offer an open invitation to visit them the next time he was in Central. It was all phrased very softly-softly, carefully avoiding any attempt to pressure him into coming. For some reason that was more irritating than the alternative.

Despite that, the invitation itself was tempting. It would be nice to take a look at the Indie's famous library . . .

The rain was starting to ease off. Perhaps sensing this, the cat started squirming again and stuck her head up through the collar of his coat. She was such a little thing. He was sure he could feel her heart beating, her life held tight in his arms.

Back when they had been trekking across Europe, there had been nights when Al had dreamt of being back in his own world. There had also been nights when he had lain awake, mind buzzing with the revelations Ed had shared about the underlying structure of alchemy. What did it mean to be in Amestris if every time an alchemist transmuted matter, they were burning up the souls of people from another world? Those dreams of home had become soaked in the same blood-red as the philosopher's stone. How many lives had he consumed with every clap of his hands?

Yet after everything he had seen, Al found he could still look at the countryside without seeing bones and death everywhere, could still bring himself to perform alchemy.

Time was different in the Gate. As far as it was concerned, the other world might as well have been already long dead, everyone there gone to dust, every soul flown away into that white space between universes. No one died specifically to provide the energy for alchemy. And who was to say how souls really existed within the Gate? If they mingled together into a greater whole, a greater Truth, then it was surely possible to take a fraction from multiple souls at once. If you did the maths and scaled that up to everyone, ever – all the alchemy in history could not have taken more than the minutest portion of any one individual person.

It could have just been a fairy story he was telling himself so that he could sleep properly at night. Likely Ed would have thought so if they ever talked about it. But Al didn't think so. Deep down, some lingering echo of the Truth whispered that he was on the right track. That this was one thing about his homeland for which he did not have to be entirely ashamed.

The Rockbell house was in sight now, up at the top of the hill. He slowed down to savour the sight. The sun breaking through the clouds caught the yellow paint just so, making it shine amidst the soaked fields. There were so many memories tied to that building, good and bad. Like any home, Al supposed, it reflected the people who lived there. He was part of that history, had been for a long time. It was good to be adding to it again.

And still he did not want to stay. Still, he wanted to wander off and go exploring, find something new to start researching, just get out into the world.

But knew he would come back, when his feet had finished taking him wherever it was they would. Just as he was now, walking up the road murmuring soothing words to the cat in his coat. He would always come back again.

That was what home really was, after all: the place you wanted to come back to after you were done with everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In a feat of scary revisionist history, I've now gone back and corrected the spelling of 'Resembool' wherever I could find it.


	39. A Fine Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a strange thing, but their own.

**06:00**

 

Captain Hawkeye was always first in the office, Black Hayate at her side, his tongue lolling with the exertion of the morning exercises. Strictly speaking, the rest of Mustang's administrative staff should have been there on the dot as well but only the direst of emergencies would have caused that to actually happen.

She appreciated the peace and quiet first-thing. It made it easy to focus on prioritising the signals waiting for the Brigadier General's attention. Though these generally ranged from 'life or death' to 'liable to be torched for wasting valuable time', the ones she considered most carefully were the candidates for that special category of 'received later'. During the long years climbing through the ranks, it had been very important to identify quickly any signal that it would be more politic or convenient for Mustang not to see, at least not immediately. He had long trusted Hawkeye to make sure he had plausible deniability at all times. He always received the signals eventually, but a close examination might have revealed a higher than average occurrence of crossed-wires on messages sent to any office occupied by the Flame Alchemist.

The need for such subterfuge was theoretically diminished now that Mustang was firmly entrenched in the Military hierarchy. In practice, however, there was still some things it was best to quietly lose.

 

* * *

 

**06:15**

 

Falman was usually the next to arrive and he was invariably prompt with the morning report, compiled from another set of signals and dispatches. Hawkeye would spend a good few minutes scanning lists of familiar abbreviations, promotions, demotions, injuries and deaths all reduced to utilitarian, easily tabulated statements. For so many years, under the Führer’s endlessly bloody rule, those lists had been horrifically long, a crushing and constant reminder of the sheer numbers of lives spent at Bradley's command. Every day where the report remained short felt like a victory.

That, she sometimes thought, was the true measure of Mustang's success.

 

* * *

  

**06:45**

 

By the time Breda turned up with a freshly-brewed coffee pot, Hawkeye would have everything ready for the Brigadier General's arrival. The morning report would be awaiting his signature and the signals would be stacked neatly in the centre of his desk.

Such neatness could not be expected of the rest of the Brigadier General's staff, who would spend an inordinate amount of time procrastinating before getting settled down to work. Breda would be full of the latest gossip, taking great pleasure in rattling it off to whoever was there to listen. Fuery would always arrive a little out of breath, careering through the door with the morning newspapers bundled carefully under his arm. Havoc would turn up after taking the most meandering route through Headquarters possible, one that somehow always took him past any number of interesting sights and carelessly open doors.

It was a well-practised routine. They looked for all the world as if they really were just a bunch of nosy, gossipy slackers riding on their boss's coat-tails while his aide did all the real work. Even after so many years, people still fell for it.

 

* * *

 

**07:15**

 

Brigadier General Mustang made no bones about the fact he was not a morning person. Any innate laziness aside, it was genuinely difficult for him to get enough rest at night. The toll he paid for his sins, real or perceived, and for his history of injuries.

Besides, any working alchemist needed to be physically fit and though he was loath to have it widely known, Roy Mustang took maintaining his body seriously. Leisurely, albeit blearily, strolling into the office as late as he legitimately could always came off the back of at least a solid couple of hours of intense exercise, usually longer.

Appearing to remain in shape effortlessly was a convenient consequence of not wishing to waste more of the day than necessary on such considerations.

 

* * *

 

**08:00**

 

Mustang always took his time over the morning report. It was the last thing he dealt with from that initial batch of papers, it always had been.

Hawkeye would watch him from the corner of her eye, noting how he reacted. She was never surprised by how he responded. She always anticipated the scene an hour previously, picturing every slight narrowing of the eye in concentration or irritation or quickly-hidden despair.

There was less despair these days. That never seemed to cheer him quite as much as it did her.

 

* * *

 

**10:00**

 

In spite of the well-worn rumours to the contrary, Mustang's office was a hive of quiet activity well into the middle of the morning. This was evidenced by an impeccable level of efficiency when it came to the mountains of paperwork demanded by the Military infrastructure, a quantity that had only increased with the return to civilian government. It was flattering in a way that this efficiency should be widely ascribed to Hawkeye's diligence – not to mention ferocity – but the truth was far more mundane.

Mustang's staff worked hard. They could speed through a day's worth of requisition forms, troop movements and intelligence reports in times unmatched, in Hawkeye's estimation, by any other active unit. The General himself had the rapid signature down to a fine art.

He relied on her to ensure he only ever applied that art to documents where it was safe for him to do so.

It was a strange sort of dance, she sometimes thought, pieces of paper flitting from desk to desk with a tempo paced just right to dispose of official work as speedily as possible, each of them relying on their partners to ensure that the next step was the right one.

 

* * *

 

**11:30**

 

She still had to ambush him with the duller proformas and more excretable directives, lest they linger forever in bureaucratic limbo. Her preferred moment to strike was in the hour before lunch, since Mustang knew that she would not let him leave his desk until the unpleasant task was dealt with. There was a knack to gauging the timing and even after all these years, she still occasionally misjudged, looking up a little later to find a row of paper cranes eyeing her coyly from behind his name plate or the waste paper bin smouldering ominously.

At least he kept her on her toes.

 

* * *

 

**12:30**

 

Hawkeye usually used the lunch break to catch up on recreational reading and to reward Black Hayate for good behaviour through the morning. She did not quite mean to hold herself apart from the other men in the officer's mess. A combination of rank and reputation took the choice out of her hands. Not that she particularly minded, but there was a degree to which she had become accustomed to it rather than preferring it.

The General preferred to eat alone. Or, more accurately, he preferred to eat in his own company or in hers. Most days this was not an option and he was forced instead to spend interminable hours in the senior officer's dining room maintaining his alliances with the higher-ranking generals. Since half of them hated him and most of the rest were cautious about being associated with him, it was a wonder he was able to make any progress at all, much less get a decent meal into the bargain.

Progress he made though. Persistence, charm and knowing where at least some of the bodies were buried. That old winning combination. One day it really would win through for good.

One day.

 

* * *

 

**13:45**

 

Officially, Brigadier General Mustang commanded one of the Central defence brigades, with special oversight on the application of the State Alchemist Program to civil projects. On paper, this meant maintaining the security of the capital, handling the logistics of assisting the local populace and monitoring the use of State-controlled alchemy outside of combat situations, a somewhat loosely defined task that covered everything from construction work to esoteric research.

Unofficially, his office was the centre of a movement to completely de-militarise alchemy throughout Amestris and bring the Military better in line with the idea that people could run the country without them.

Turning control of national affairs back over to the Assembly was not a decision that sat well with High Command, even after the expulsion of the Bradley loyalists. It had been General Grumman's near-unilateral choice in the aftermath of the coup and many were convinced it was a sign that the old fool had finally gone senile on them. Hawkeye was sure those people did not give Grumman nearly enough credit. If he had insisted the country stayed under Military control, Amestris would likely have been torn apart in the power struggle and internal recriminations. By ordering all units to stand down and surrender authority to their civilian counterparts, as far as those existed, Grumman had given the Military the space it needed to purge itself of the kinds of people who had blindly or enthusiastically bought into the Führer’s genocidal ambitions.

These days the fight was to make sure no one thought it was a bright idea to reinstate martial rule now the crisis was ostensibly over.

It made Hawkeye immeasurably proud that none of her comrades had abandoned that fight. Prouder still that neither had the Brigadier General.

 

* * *

 

**14:50**

 

Their methods of passing collated intelligence around the office formed another dance. Sometimes it was a crude as a note scrawled on the back of a weather report. Sometimes it was as complicated as a carefully coded jibe about Havoc's latest failed date cross-referenced with some obscure bit of military history dredged up from Falman's encyclopedic memory. It all depended on what they needed to share and how quickly.

There was a third dance Hawkeye and Mustang shared alone. An exchange of gestures and asides that conveyed more intimate knowledge. A raised eyebrow, meaning that whatever he said next was the reverse of his true opinion. A sarcastic retort about whatever he was reading, implying she needed to take a second look at it once he was done. A flick of the wrist while he was on the phone, telling her to interrupt with an 'urgent' request.

She reciprocated in a more muted fashion. The way she put her pen down. A glance shot one way or the other. Adjusting her pistol in its holster. They could hold entire conversations like that, even while having a perfectly mundane discussion aloud, and no one who might be watching would be any the wiser.

 

* * *

 

**17:40**

 

There was something about the afternoon sun that made the Brigadier General restless. He would spend long minutes standing in front of windows, gazing at the shadows cast over the lawns outside. It was not a little distracting to see him bathed in light, the lines on his face in turns softened and made stark as he turned his head.

So far, he had not actually caught her staring at him. Or rather, he had not acknowledged it. She suspected he knew she was doing it, if only because it made her stop working. Unlike him, she had never entirely mastered the art of writing neatly while not actually looking at the page in front of her.

Eventually, she would have to clear her throat or make some other gesture to remind him of whatever document was lying unattended on his desk. He would turn and blink sheepishly at her, rub at his eye and step away from the window.

But some days, she would just let him stand there and watch the sun go down.

 

* * *

 

**19:00**

 

First in and last one out, Hawkeye was always the one to turn off the lights. She did her rounds locking up the confidential filing cabinets at the same time Falman did the same in the outer office but she lingered a little to let him get away first. Partly, that was simply so she could chase the man out when he tried to stay on to finish up something that could wait until the next day. Left to his own devices, he would miss dinner for the sake of completeness.

The other reason she stayed was to make sure that whatever had happened during the day, the office was set back to neatness and normality, ready for whatever happened tomorrow. She would straighten the pictures on the desks, examining each one in turn. She would replace the books the Brigadier General had taken down for whatever reason, habitually flicking through them to check for hidden messages. She would pull the curtains across, pausing at just the right time to spot the Brigadier General strolling towards the gates.

He would glance up and acknowledge her with a single briefly raised hand. She would salute. And with that last exchange of signals, they would turn away from one another. Hawkeye would finish closing the curtains and collect Hayate, lock the inner door, take one last look around the outer office and then walk out into the corridor.

Other people had dance-halls and restaurants or bar-rooms and hotels, the flash and dazzle of gifts and flowers or the cool exchanges of social power. They had the third floor of Central Headquarters, a band of stalwart, if slightly unorthodox soldiers and the reassuring formality of rank and regulation.

Captain Hawkeye was perfectly capable of wishing for other people's romantic ideals. But rare was the day when she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Team Mustang: the decade's champions at obfuscating stupidity.  
> * Thanks to the esteemed [Rokesmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokesmith) for pointers on military protocol and routine, about which he knows far more than I do.


	40. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit long overdue.

He made all sorts of excuses to himself about why he hadn't visited sooner. He'd been recovering. He'd been helping Al teach Noah. He'd been back in the Military. He'd been up in Briggs –

The truth was, while he avoided going to Dublith, some part of him could pretend that it wasn't true. That Teacher was just . . . travelling. Out of contact. Not . . .

Logically, Ed had always known Teacher was going to die sooner rather than later. She'd not really tried to hide her condition. He'd also always known on some level that he was going to turn out a disappointment to her. The shame of the real reason why he and Al went to her for training always lurked somewhere at the back of his mind, consciously or not. He'd used to justify it to himself, late at night when he couldn't sleep because it was eating away at his heart. _But if we do it right and bring mom back, it'll have been the right thing to do all along. No one can blame us for that._

So stupid. Was that the trap everyone who tried human transmutation fell into?

He shrugged off his bag and stared mutely at the headstone, suddenly painfully aware that he was still wearing his uniform. Shit. She would have hated that.

“Uh. Hi.” What was he doing? Talking to a lump of rock. How frikkin' dumb. Somehow he couldn't help himself. “I'm sorry I . . . I should have been here.” That was dumb too. What could he have done? “I should have . . . I wanted to say thank you. For everything. I . . .”

Without quite meaning to, he put his hand on the top of the stone, gripping it tightly. His eyes were itching. “You were right,” he whispered, “About what we did. About the kid. I . . . I hope he found a way back to you.”

Because it was a nice thing to imagine. That somewhere out there, Teacher and Wrath were together, like they always should have been.

Ed breathed out a long, deep sigh, scrubbed an arm over his face and heaved up the kitbag again. The train to Rush Valley would be pulling in soon and it looked like rain.


	41. Down Among the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was getting used to never being alone.

Edward woke from fevered dreams to find one of the shadows standing over him.

He was getting used to never being alone. They watched him all the time, while he ate, slept and fought. Most of the time, they did so discretely, presumably assuming that because they were out of his sight, he would not be constantly aware of their presence. Perhaps if he were more honest with them about how strong his senses had really become, they would be more cautious. Perhaps that was why he was not.

From the smell, this shadow was one of the familiar ones. A woman, who washed using plain soap and spent a great deal of time in the master's luxuriously perfumed quarters. One of the favoured bodyguards.

He rolled over to stare up at her, the silk sheets of his low bed tangling around his legs. He was beyond caring that he wasn't wearing anything. The weird disconnect between these people's obvious taste in finery and apparent ignorance of the need for a good pair of pyjamas was old hat by now and he had ceased questioning what they thought he could achieve with trousers and a couple of buttons that he couldn't with the sheets and pillows.

The shadow did not draw away. Some of them did. Not this one. She moved only when it was necessary and not before. It made her the one most likely to beat the tar out of him in the training room, besides the master himself.

Edward wished their masks were less all-concealing. It would have been nice to get an impression of what they looked like beyond their eyes. Often when training he would try and snatch the masks off, just for a glimpse of humanity. So far, no luck.

Half-consciously, he rubbed at his chest. His fingers brushed something slick and cold. With distaste, he peeled the patch of black _stuff_ off. That happened sometimes when they chose to feed him another of those bitter red pills. He would awaken to find bits of leather apparently having grown out of his body in the night. Horrible stuff. Was that the point of not giving him nightwear? Did they expect him to grow his own? Was that something that the kind of creature he had become could do?

There was an ache in his left shoulder. He shifted, trying to ease it.

The shadow's breath hissed behind her mask.

He frowned. None of them ever seemed to express shock. Part of the job, he supposed. But that had definitely been the sound of surprise. Willing his eyes to better adjust to the darkness – because he could do that now, apparently – he looked down.

Amid the familiar swirling burn marks that ran down his arm, something like a crude pattern seemed to have formed. It was just below the shoulder joint, a ring around a blotch that might almost have been a star. It definitely had not been there when he'd last checked.

“What is it?” he asked. He'd found his questions answered erratically, sometimes with lectures, sometimes with silence. Usually, it was the master doing the answering. Sometimes, one of his servants. Never the shadows. But perhaps this time . . .

He glanced up at her again. “Does it mean something?”

With all his senses focused on her, he could actually hear her licking her lips, could see the slight shifts in her stance. Was she actually going to speak? Could she even understand him? He wasn't entirely sure that all the people he encountered could.

“The Touch of the Serpent.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She sounded so awed it blind-sided him.

“Oh,” he managed, “And that's . . . good?”

To his utter astonishment, she dropped to her knees. “Forgive me.”

“What on earth for?”

Again, she spoke so quietly he was sure no one but him could have heard her. “Doubting you.”

Edward tugged the covers up around him and swung round so he could sit up and face her at the same time. “Please.” He reached out a hand, then drew it back. “Please get up.”

She did so smoothly, rising back into her watchful fighter's stance. But there was a new deference about it that made him extremely uncomfortable.

Not knowing quite what to say, he bounced a fist against an open palm, then tapped his shoulder. “You're going to have to explain why this is important. I'm sorry but I don't know. And that means I don't know why you should have doubted me or why that should require me to forgive you.”

Her breath hissed again. “It . . . it is a great blessing,” she said eventually, “It means . . . you are touched by greatness.”

“Ah.” Comprehension dawned. “Like the master. Yes?”

“Yes.”

She had an interesting accent, he noticed. Clipped and formal and she put thought into each word. English was definitely not her first language.

“And you didn't think I was. Like him, I mean.”

“No,” she answered miserably.

“I don't think I can blame you for that.” He smiled wryly. “I've hardly excelled myself while I've been here.”

“I should not have doubted the master.”

“Ah.” So that was it. Of course. The devotion these people had for their grinning leader was quite terrifying. “I'm sure he won't blame you for your caution. I could have proved to have been a disappointment.” He stretched and examined again this 'Serpent’s touch.' Yes, it did sort of look like a snake of some kind, biting its own tail like the old Norse myth.

Why not? It made as much sense as anything else in this strange place.

The shadow hovered, then abruptly bowed and started to back away. Giving him the distance now due to his rank?

An impulsive thought came to him. He stretched out a hand. “Wait.”

She stopped uncertainly at his command.

“This.” He gestured. “This affords me your respect?”

Her head inclined.

“Then . . . would you do something for me?”

Again, she nodded, hesitantly.

“Show me your face.”

He considered explaining why, telling her how lonely he felt, how starved of contact he was in this palace of faceless servants and shark-toothed kings. But by the time the explanation had fully formed in his mind, she had already unhooked her mask.

She was so young it hit him in the stomach. Dark, wide eyes, a little snub nose, strands of black hair cut short across her forehead – this was the fearsome warrior who gutted him with distressing regularity?

He dropped his gaze. “Thank you.” When he looked up again, the mask was back in place and the shadow had resumed her silent vigil on the far side of the room. “I . . .” He wanted to say something more but could not think of a damn thing.

Feeling lonelier than ever, Edward March lay down and tried to go back to sleep.


	42. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone really should have warned him.

“Oi! Rockbell!”

Ed looked up with a frown at the shout echoing in from the front of Dominic’s shop. He was already less than pleased about the reception he had received upon reaching Rush Valley. A harried Winry yelling at him to watch the shop as she rocketed past him and nearly knocked him flat on his suitcase had not been how he'd imagined their reunion to go. In fact, he had been rather counting on an arrival at the end of a day he knew her boss was out of town leaving her free to focus on him and what he had been planning all the way back from the North. He ought to have realised that fate hadn’t been on his side recently.

Resolving to get rid of whoever it was, he dropped his case, threw his uniform jacket at a chair and marched out into the little anteroom. The red haired man leaning on the counter wore a vest and overalls, both smeared with oil and grease. He looked up as Ed came in, the screwdriver he had been rapping against his leg freezing mid-arc. “There you – who the hell are you?”

The indignant accusation in his voice caused Ed’s temper flare. “Well, who the hell are you?”

“I’m a friend of the girl running this shop,” the other man snapped back, “The one you’re, you know, trespassing in.”

“Trespassing?!” Ed practically screeched the word. “I’m not _trespassing_!”

“So what do you call skulking about the back room with no one supervising?” His eyes narrowed. “Rockbell _never_ leaves patients unattended and she’s not got any appointments this late anyway. So who are you and what are you doing going in there without permission?”

Ed’s hackles rose. Who the hell did this guy think he was, walking in and asking questions as if he owned the place? “How is that any of your frickin’ business?” he growled.

The stranger stood up to his full, not-exactly intimidating height and waved his screwdriver menacingly. “I make it my business when I find suspicious little twerps in my friends’ shops and don’t see my friends standing next to them.”

 

* * *

 

Winry breathed a sigh of relief as she came out of the store, the can of all-purpose oil clutched to her chest and the ‘closed’ sign going up behind her. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to buy it on her lunch-break and was extremely thankful Ed showed up when he did, meaning she hadn’t lost valuable seconds locking up. Strolling back through the Rush Valley evening, she smiled to herself. She’d have to make up for not greeting him properly, she knew, but she couldn’t say she wasn’t looking forward to what _that_ might entail –

Her good mood came to an abrupt end when she saw blue/white lightning flash through the windows of Dominic’s shop. What did Ed think he was _doing_?

 

* * *

 

“Ed! What –” She broke off halfway over the threshold and stared in astonishment.

“Stay back, Rockbell!” shouted the redhead suspended from the ceiling by his ankles, “This one’s armed!”

“Careful Winry!” Ed called out at the same time, his hands poised to clap.

Winry came in properly and slowly put the can down on the counter. “Edward,” she began with forced calm, “Why is Doddie upside down?”

“He was trying to throw me out – wait, you _know_ this creep?”

Ignoring that for the moment, she switched her attention to Doddie, who shrugged as well as he could. “You weren’t here and he was and I, you know, jumped to conclusions.”

Winry’s hand met her forehead. “Yeah, of course you did.”

“But – you know _him_?” Ed repeated, pointing, just to be sure the question was getting through.

“Of course I frickin’ know him, you idiot! He’s one of my friends!”

Ed’s jaw dropped. “One of your . . . what?” he managed to stammer out.

She rolled her eyes in pure exasperation. “Friends. You know? People you talk to. Go out drinking with. Don’t alchemise into the ceiling.”

His eyes stood out on stalks. “Go . . . out . . . drinking?”

“Get him down,” she ordered curtly, “Right now.”

Appropriately cowed, he clapped and Doddie dropped to the floor, more than a little shaken. Winry helped him stand, brushing dust and metal shavings from his shoulders.

“You know _him_?” Doddie asked, imitating Ed’s tone almost exactly.

“Unfortunately,” she agreed, before switching her attention back to the alchemist, “Edward Elric this is Jon Dodds. He works for Mr Garfiel, over the road. Doddie, this is my boyfriend.”

Doddie looked from Winry to Ed to the alchemy-created hands that protruded above their heads. “Of course he is,” he agreed weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * And now back to our regularly scheduled romantic comedy!


	43. Unaccustomed Sensations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, new feelings are great. Other times . . .

“What were you _thinking_?”

Ed cringed as he traipsed after Winry. ‘Doddie’ had finally, _finally_ gone and they were going upstairs to stow Ed’s suitcase somewhere out of the way.

“I mean, what kind of idiot hangs people from the ceiling – the frickin’ _ceiling_ – just because they’re being a bit pushy?” Winry had begun to give full vent to her feelings on the matter the moment her friend – _friend_? That jerk? – was out the door and was clearly just getting going.

“He was trying to throw me out,” Ed grumbled, feeling that this point needed to be stressed more.

“So you _attacked_ him?”

“I defended myself!”

“ _Bit_ of an overreaction, genius!”

“Most of the people who attack me want to kill me!”

“Doddie had a _screwdriver_ and he’s half your weight!”

Ed was well aware he wasn’t going to win the argument. But he was damned if he was just going to give up and accept that she was right. “What do you see in that jerk, anyway?” he demanded as Winry kicked open her door.

She turned back to glare at him challengingly. “ _See in him_? I like him! He’s funny and he’s fun to be around and I can actually have a decent conversation with him!”

“Decent conversation?! He complained all the way through dinner!”

“Just because you don’t get the joke doesn’t mean it isn’t funny!”

“He’s . . .” Adjectives tumbled through Ed’s brain and he grabbed for the nearest. “Scrawny!”

Winry’s eyebrows nearly vanished into her fringe. “He’s _what_?”

“Scrawny!” Ed repeated, buying time while he tried to find something else to say. “And he can’t fight! And . . . his hair’s all . . .” He stopped making sticking-up motions and trailed off as it dawned on him that this was entirely the wrong line of argument to pursue.

“Edward Elric . . .” A malicious gleam came into Winry’s eye. “Are you _jealous_?”

“What – no! I’m – wel – ah – I –”

“You are!” she continued, clapping her hands, “You’re jealous! Of _Doddie_!”

He felt himself going red and decided that he’d like the ground to swallow him up now, please.

“Well, he is a better dancer than you.” She was suddenly looking extremely thoughtful. “And he doesn’t get drunk so fast . . . and he knows more about auto-mail than how to break it . . .”

If his cheeks got any hotter, he was going to start sizzling. He opened his mouth but Winry ploughed on.

“Of course, there’s Jason up the street, too. He’s six feet tall and can lift a horse. And then there’s Al, obviously. He’s so much sweeter than you and _he_ wouldn't step on my toes when we’re dancing either . . .” She was ticking them off on her fingers now, on her goddamned fingers! “Marc’s nice, skinny but he’s got big feet and you know what they say about that. Oh, and there was that nice alchemist I met last summer who gave me this.” Twirling, she plucked an intricate metal rose from her bedside table and presented it to him for inspection.

Ed bellowed, the suitcase landing with a loud thud at his feet, “IAMNOTFRICKINJEALOUS!”

“Are. Too.” She smiled beatifically and leaned forward, brushing the tip of his nose with hers. Standing up straight again, she absently put the metal rose down on her desk. “Ed, did you really think I wouldn’t meet other people I liked? Maybe even more than liked? You were gone. For good. And it’s not as if you ever said anything in the first place.” She reached out and flicked his ear. “Did you really think I’d just sit here at night, thinking about you?”

Ed stared at her, at the woman standing before him, her hands on her hips, oil smeared across her face, five earrings in each ear, sweat-matted hair roughly pulled into a ponytail, overalls folded down and knotted around her waist . . .

“’S what I did,” he mumbled and blushed an even deeper red.

“Idiot.” She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him into the room.


	44. Overtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the new boss . . .

Sheska groaned as she finally, _finally_ finished writing out the copy of the transcript from Major Dewoitine's court martial. A hundred and seventy pages of grim accusations and feeble defences about the kind of crimes that made her stomach turn over – and Dewoitine was one of the ones they had just kicked out of the Military, no other action taken!

Had bee _n_ one of the ones they'd just kicked out, she corrected mentally, _had been_. So long working for Court Martial Investigations and she was still not really comfortable thinking or talking about people who had been murdered, even when they were as appallingly horrible as the Diamond Skin Alchemist. Winry told her that was a good thing really, but it did made the job harder sometimes.

Someone set a steaming mug of tea down in front of here. “Here, you look like you could use this.”

Sheska looked up to see Maria Ross smiling down at her, spiky fringe sticking up slightly more than usual. “Oh thank you so much!” She grabbed the mug eagerly. “Lieutenant, sir,” she added, remembering belatedly as ever to add the respectful form of address. It was always hard to remember that for such a . . . motherly person as the First Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Ross chuckled and lifted a mug of her own in salute. “I assume this is some sort of rush order?” she asked, indicating the transcript stacked at Sheska's elbow.

“Yeah. Colonel Fiat said it was a request from the police in South City, about a body they'd found, a man who was once a State Alchemist . . .”

“A murder case?” Ross raised her eyebrows.

“Y-yes, I'm afraid so.”

The lieutenant grimaced.

“What about you? Are you on night duty today?”

“Oh, no. It's not that. I had a late meeting with Brigadier General Mustang, actually.”

“Huh?” Sheska's mouth became an O of surprise. They might all be part of what she privately thought of as the Maes Hughes Memorial Conspiracy for the Betterment of the Nation but it was not as if they just associated with each other every day. Investigations did not have much to do with Mustang's brigade, except when they needed to access their records. There was certainly no obvious reason Sheska could think of why the lieutenant should have been summoned to a meeting with Mustang himself. She hoped it wouldn't get either of them into trouble with Colonel Fiat.

“It was nothing too important, just something that he wanted to talk through with a few people.” Ross looked unusually evasive for a second. “One thing he did tell me was the Ed will be back in Central next week.”

It was not the best attempt Sheska had ever heard to change the subject. “Oh yes! Winry wrote to tell me she'd be coming up with him. It'll be nice to have them both back here!”

“It will.” There was a far-away look in Ross' eyes as she agreed.

“Are you OK, Lieutenant?”

“I'm just thinking how strange it is to see Ed . . . grown up. I'm so used to thinking of him as that reckless kid we had to pull out of Lab Five. Now he's actually old enough to be wearing the uniform . . .” She shook her head as if to clear it. “I hope you get some time to spend with Winry.”

“Oh I will! I've asked Colonel Fiat and he approved some of my leave for then. Though I guess if he needs any more files sent out urgently, he might cancel that . . .” Because sometimes it seemed that her new boss was worse than Colonel Hughes and Colonel Archer put together – well, maybe not worse than Colonel Archer and Fiat had never once threatened her with baby photos but still. “I really hope he doesn't, I want to be there to help Winry out. She'll need someone to help her find her way around Central and Ed will probably have things to do for the Brigadier General.”

“I'm sure General Mustang will give Ed time to look for somewhere to live.”

“Uh huh, but . . .” It was almost embarrassing to have to admit how much she wanted to spend some time with her friend even though it had only been a few months since they'd seen each other last and they had written or called each other a lot, as usual. No, scratch that, it was embarrassing. “He might not,” she finished lamely.

Ross' smile suggested she understood what Sheska hadn't said aloud. They drank their tea in companionable silence and when they were done, Ross picked up both mugs. “I'll take these back to the mess. You'd better get home, hadn't you?”

“I just need to get this transcript over to the mail room and –”

“Hope you're not too bored of court proceedings, Private,” boomed a voice from the door. A middle-aged man with a short black beard marched in, his nose stuck in a leather-bound book, “We've got another request from SP – Ross,” he noted, finally lowering the book.

With the skill of a seasoned soldier, Ross had transferred both mugs to her left hand and swept them behind her back so that she could salute freely.

“Good to see Brigadier General Mustang's finished abducting my officers for the day.” Colonel Fiat turned his attention back to Sheska, apparently dismissing Ross entirely. “Need copies of files FC-476 and X2-9A, ASAP. You know the drill, excise any and all info classified Secret and above, slap on the old A-90 addendum and package them up for transfer to SHQ. PDQ, please. Oh, and do you have the AmMilRegs-1897 in here? I need to cross-reference something with the latest GO-77 docket. Suspect someone doesn't know their ATA from their ETC.”

It always amazed Sheska quite how many acronyms the Military had and quite how many of them the Colonel could come out with at the slightest provocation. It was like being machine-gunned by the alphabet. She scrambled out of her seat and hurried to haul the relevant tome off the shelf behind her. The Colonel waited, impatiently tapping his foot, face buried once more in his book. Ross hovered uncertainly beside him, the mugs still behind her back.

“Here you are, sir.” The volume of military regulations slipped from Sheska's grasp at the last moment and slammed on to the desk top, nearly scattering the carefully typed transcript to the four winds. Ross winced. Fiat barely seemed to notice.

“Hmm? Oh, excellent, thank you.” Without obvious effort, the Colonel picked up the regulations and tucked them under his arm. “On with those copies now, please, Private. Remember – PDQ!” Halfway to the door, he added, over his shoulder, “Good thinking on the tea, Ross – perfect for keeping the mind alert at this time of day. I'll have a mug in my office in ten minutes.” He swept out.

With a long groan of despair, Sheska rested her forehead against the edge of her desk. “I'm never going to get home ever again.”

Ross awkwardly patted her shoulder in sympathy. “Sorry. I probably ought to leave you to it and go get the Colonel's tea.” She said it with considerable distaste.

“That's OK. I'll . . . be right here . . . copying those files.” Sheska could hear the edge of hysteria creeping into her voice but was powerless to stop it.

Ross patted her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Colonel Fiat is one of my partner's favourite characters in my FMA fics. I kind of hope you share her assessment . . .  
> * The final chapter will hopefully be up on Friday . . . as long as I've finished writing it by then!


	45. Triptych

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heart and soul and blood and bone.

The lights of Rush Valley spilled through the open window, painting their skin in a cloud of different colours. She shifted to lie on her side and watched the slow rise and fall of Ed's chest. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth half-open, the lines of his face almost but not quite totally relaxed. He stiffened when she slid her fingers across his shoulder and along the hollow beneath his collar bone, but only for a second. Letting his head loll sideways, he grinned sleepily, teeth showing over his bottom lip.

Taking that as encouragement, she nestled in closer, hand slipping further around until she could feel scar tissue and then –

It was not the metal itself that made her pause. She'd put Ed back together with her own hands; she'd never think him anything less than a whole person because of the auto-mail. But just sometimes, she wondered . . .

“Do you mind?”

“Hmm?” His drowsy response reverberated through his chest and through her chin.

She pulled away a little. “Your arm and leg. When you started out . . . you were always going to get them back as well as Al's body. Does it . . . ever bother you that you didn't?”

“Heh.” She felt rather than saw him grin again. “Sure. When I'm in a thunderstorm and the ports are screwing 'round.”

“No, I meant –”

“I know . . .” He breathed in and out. “Sometimes, yeah. But Al was what really mattered. The more we found out about what it would cost to fix us . . . I knew I could only do it for him. Never just for me. And when he . . . remade me . . . I couldn't live knowing he'd given everything to do it. I had to give it back. Bring him back. Easiest choice I ever made.”

Winry shivered, unable to keep down her horror at what he'd done. Not the act itself but what it could have – what it _had_ cost.

Ed's left hand rubbed circles on her bare back, as pleasantly warm as the rest of him. “I wish I could tell you I thought about what it would mean . . . everyone I'd be leaving behind . . . but I didn't. I didn't think about anything except bringing Al back. I –”

“Ed,” she said, pressing her face against his shoulder, “if you apologise for being selfless enough to give up your life to save Al, I might just have to get up to fetch a wrench to brain you with. And that would be bad because I _like_ being here right now.”

“OK.” A beat, a couple of heartbeats. “It doesn't exactly feel selfless sometimes. I mean, I survived.”

“Did you expect to?”

“No. I was as surprised as everyone else when I woke up . . . over there.”

“Without your arm and leg again.”

“Yeah. If . . . if _dad_ hadn't found me . . .” 'Dad' came out of his mouth sounding as if it tasted like ashes. “Well, he did, didn't he?”

“And you got home eventually anyway. You didn't leave us after all. Did you?”

“I guess not.” His hand moved up to her head, teasing its way through her hair

Winry remembered something he had said, oh, not long before New Years at Gracia's, when they'd been so new to it all and snatching hours and nights where they could – which wasn't all that long ago, it just felt like forever. He'd told her that he felt he'd cheated somewhere along the line, lucked out without paying anything for getting home. She'd pointed out that was dumb, since he'd obviously gone through a lot to get back, him and Al both, and if he was going to stick to the idea that everything should be equivalent, then he ought to pay more attention. But she could hear in his voice now that he still worried about it. Still half expected to have everything he'd gotten back – _they'd_ gotten back – snatched away because he'd not paid a high enough price for it.

Oh, he was so lucky she was too tired to actually go and fetch that wrench.

“Dummy.”

“Huh?”

She hugged him tight, as much as she could while they were lying down. “You can't blame yourself for things you didn't do and wouldn't have been your fault anyway.”

“Always manage it somehow.”

“It's a talent.”

“Heh. Yeah . . .”

Ed reached up, auto-mail hand flexing and grasping at the ceiling. He let his head fall back against the pillow. “This is . . . part of me now. It's my arm. And that's my leg. And . . . they're kind of part of you too, because you made them for me, so there's always part of me that will be yours and . . . I think I like that.”

Winry thought she liked it too. In fact, she was a little bit awed that Ed could say something like that about his auto-mail.

“And this is . . . this is the price I paid.” He closed his hand into a fist. “I've always got it here to remind me to make the most of what I got for it.”

And really, how could she argue with that?

 

* * *

 

Roy smothered a yawn and flicked back through the pages, looking for both a stray footnote and his train of thought. Midnight was receding behind him. It was long past time that all good little boys and girls were tucked up in bed. Fortunately, he supposed, he did not fall into either category.

A glass of his third-best whisky sat untouched on the desk next to him. He had made a pact with himself that he would finish fighting his way through this last tedious paper before he drank it. That was probably going to mean that he would not be drinking it at all, since he was reasonably certain he was going to re-reading the penultimate section for the rest of eternity trying to figure out just what on earth the writer was going on about and what it had to do with a new method of spot-welding that might or might not involve elements of flame alchemy. And that, he decided, would be an unforgivable waste of third-best whisky.

Setting the paper down, he fumbled for his pen and scribbled a note in the margin to make sure he remembered to look up one of the references later. Then, realising both that what he'd written was unintelligible and that he'd written it in the wrong place, he gave up and seized the tumbler. If his mind was already sinking into a fug, might as well find a way to make the inevitable downfall a little more enjoyable.

Roy sat back in his chair and contemplated the wall of his study. Hm. 'Roy'. He only ever seemed to think of himself like that any more when he was at home. At Headquarters, he was always 'Mustang'. The Brigadier General. The Flame Alchemist. No one except Gracia ever called him Roy anyway and he did not see her very often. He wished . . . he wished that wasn't the case sometimes. That there were people who thought enough of him to use his first name easily. Who'd think of him as a friend not a commanding officer or a friendly enemy or . . .

Hell, the alcohol wasn't even halfway down his throat and he was already being pointlessly maudlin. Didn't that just take the cake?

He considered the phone. For some reason, he suddenly wanted to call someone. Gracia? No, absolutely not. Mothers did not keep post-midnight hours if they could avoid it. Nurses did but getting enough sleep to keep up with an eleven-year-old took priority. Hawkeye? The horrible thing was that she would answer and would tolerate whatever inane rambling or attempt at confession Roy came out with for as long as he kept going. He did not feel like being tolerated. Havoc? Hardly. Besides, he was already on his way to the Ishbal border.

The thought of that dusty landscape joined the background symphony of niggling aches that criss-crossed Roy's body. Damn, but age was an annoyance. Why did it have to exacerbate every pain and insecurity? Was it simply a case of such things mounting up until they passed some arbitrary critical limit?

Dear gods, he was sitting on his own worrying about his age. Third-best clearly did not mutually exclude potency.

Roy wondered how quickly Fullmetal got drunk and internally weighed the possibilities for amusement and embarrassment that might stem from attempting to find out. Realistically, it was likely to end on the embarrassment end for the two of them and the amusement end for everyone else. So that would be a no to that idea. He had his dignity to think of.

Maes always used to tell him he thought too highly of his own dignity. Well, not tell him so much as hint loud enough to be heard in Creta. He'd argued back that if he wanted to get anywhere, he had to appear to be a dignified officer and gentleman. That was the image the higher-ups cultivated so he had to as well. No one ever caught the Führer drunk off his head, cawing out The Bonny Fusilier at three o'clock in the morning. Maes had just looked at him sadly, as though Roy did not quite understand the way the world actually worked. He'd been patient. Let Roy find out the hard way that sometimes there was no choice but to swallow your dignity if you wanted to get ahead. If you wanted to earn people's respect. Their loyalty.

Would Maes be proud of him now? After he'd hit Roy around the head for being stupid enough to take Bradley on single-handed, and for the whole 'running away to the north and leaving everyone to clear up the mess' thing . . . would he have been proud?

It wasn't finished. Nothing had worked out the way it was supposed to. There would be no climbing up to the big office and making sweeping changes from on high. Things weren't that simple now, if they ever had been. But there had been some measure of recompense for Ishbal. And Bradley was gone for good, the whole rotten foundation he'd fronted ripped out from under the corrupt Military it supported. They were building something better in its place. The people could control the country again. Actually had a choice in who was running the show. Roy was clawing his way to ending the use of alchemy in open combat. Had already rooted out dozens of those who would use it against other human beings, had personally overseen the dismantling of hidden chimera factories and crucibles for the stone. He was going to do more. He'd already put in motions plans that would –

Well, that was the thing, wasn't it, he told the imaginary Maes he was talking to. The truth was, there was always more that could be done. Always more to do. The rumours and suspicions that had sent Havoc back to the East, the reports drifting up from the South, even Fullmetal's latest boy detective paper chase – new distractions and diversions, things that might tip the world one way or the other. Sometimes Roy wasn't sure if he was a soldier or a juggler. All those spinning plates and only one eye to keep track of them all . . .

_ You idiot _ , said the alcohol-fuelled delusion of his best friend's ghost, _ Count again. You've got enough eyes around you to make a battalion of spiders envious. You think Hawkeye and Havoc and Ed and Al and all the rest don't have your back? After all this time, you haven't figured out that you're not doing this alone? _

Of course he had. He was just in one of those moods, prodding at his life like it was a sore tooth. He wasn't looking into the abyss, just sort of skirting the edge, glancing at it through the bottom of a glass.

_Well good. Just as long as you're not going to go jump into it. And for the last time, find yourself a wife!_

Hah. One day, Maes. One day . . . For now he would just have to sit alone, pondering the future and the past and all points in between. Roy Mustang, taking the night off to talk to phantoms and reflect on the way things stood. All told, from where he was sitting, the world did not look as bad as it might and a damn sight better than it could have been.

And on his own, where no one else could see . . . he decided to enjoy that. Just for a little while.

 

* * *

 

His blood was red lightning, blazing in his veins. His senses hammered him from every angle. It hurt to be alive. And that was glorious.

One of the shadows hurtled out of the darkness, blade ready to slice into his heart. He curved around the blow, fist lashing out into the warrior's shoulder. Emotion gave the punch bone-smashing force. Anger at his treatment. Rage against the alien world he was trapped in. Fury toward the ones responsible. The shadow gasped in pain and staggered away, sword dropping to the floor.

Another shadow rushed up behind him. Edward _felt_ them coming, felt the air they displaced, the vibrations of their feet on the floor, the crisp song of their sword. His nostrils filled with their scent, sweat, leather, steel.

A whirlwind with fire in its belly, he spun and fell upon this new assailant. They went down hard, the shadow cutting at him in wild desperation as his hands closed on their neck. The sword stung him deep but he did not care. Pain was just more fuel now, feeding the thing in his heart. Already his skin was reforming good as new. His fingers tightened around the shadow's throat. Soft gurgling noises come from behind the painted mask and that is _immensely_ satisfying. To be the one with the power for once, to not be the victim, to _have a victim_ –

Wait. No. That's not –

She landed on his back and got an arm under his chin. He could smell her, the one who'd taken off her mask for him, and so close, with his senses so heightened, the familiar odour was overpowering. With her free hand, she drove a diamond-shaped throwing knife into his right wrist. He lost his grip on his victim – though in truth, he was already starting to let go. The armour on her forearm forced his head up and back. He flailed for a second, trying to prise it away before she choked him.

Then – clarity. He reached over his shoulders, arching his back as he did so, and seized handfuls of her tunic. With all his tremendous strength, he wrenched. The force of it flipped her clean over his head and across the room. Surely had he been a normal human, that manoeuvre would have snapped his neck. Instead, all he suffered was something like a mild sprain in his spine and that faded almost at once.

He felt strong enough to take on a gorilla. Powerful enough to bend a railway track with his bare hands. Leaping after the girl, all the way over to her, was nothing. Batting aside another strike from the darkness that would have come invisibly and silently to the person he used to be, that was nothing too. The man – definitely a man this time – doubled over in mid-air as Edward's fist ploughed into his gut.

Edward did not see what happened to him but heard the impact against the floor. Landing much more lightly, he pressed a foot against the girl's sternum, pinning her before she could spring up. The world slowed as he reached for her mask, as he poured some of that red lightning into his fingers. He was not just going to take it away, he was going to blow it off her face. Pay back for all the cuts and bruises, all the defeats and humiliations. Sweet revenge –

What was he doing? Unbidden, Helen's face rose in his mind, the expression she had gotten the first time he really lost his temper in her company – he could not remember what it had been about but she had looked so taken aback that he'd just . . . stopped. A moment of total self-realisation over the effect he was having, the way he was acting. He'd just stop–

Agony in his left side. Another of the girl's throwing knives, buried deep into the flesh beneath his ribcage. She pushed it deeper as his fingertips connected with the mask, twisting hard to cause the maximum amount of damage. He could actually hear the skin and muscle tearing. It was too late though. Far too late.

His mouth pulled into a savage grin, teeth bared. The paint on the mask's surface bubbled and cracked. He saw her eyes widen.

“Enough.” A single word, cutting through the dark.

Edward very nearly did not stop. Every fibre of his being wanted to keep going and smash the mask into a million pieces. But there was Helen's face again and . . . he couldn't. The lightning petered out. He pulled back, taking his foot away, freeing the girl. She flowed into a kneeling position, bowing to her master, the knife sliding free of Edward's side and vanishing. The wound fizzed out of existence, the pain going with it. His mind stilled. His heart slowed. He had not even realised how fast it had been beating.

The master clapped. Of course it was the master, who else would have done so? Immediately, the room was full of light. Edward's eyes adjusted in an instant. Battered  warriors were arrayed around the chamber, kneeling to various degrees of ability. The master surveyed the scene with a laconic eye, his long silken tunic swishing as he glided between his servants. He stopped in front of Edward, leaning slightly around him to examine the girl on the floor. “No bad,” he murmured, “Not bad at all. Those last few fragments really seem to have brought out the best in you.” Lightly laying a hand on Edward's shoulder, he smiled his shark's smile. “I think it's time we let you out into the world again, my friend. A great purpose awaits you!”

Edward looked into the violet eyes of the man before him and swallowed a howl of despair. “What is it you want me to do?”

The master smiled again.

* * *

* * *

 

**Fullmetal Alchemist: The Lives of Clockwork Men  
**

**Coming Soon . . .**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * And as the fic sails off into the night, I offer a genuine fake ex-Marvel Comics no-prize to whomsoever can guess where that particular plot strand is heading.  
> * Thanks and appreciation to everyone who stopped by to read this thing and especially to those who left kudos and comments in their wake.  
> * A special thanks to the proof-reading of [The_Dancing_Walrus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus/pseuds/The_Dancing_Walrus) who, as ever, helps steer these things into safe-harbour.  
> * There is probably a nautical themed quip I could end this with . . . but I seem to have misplaced it. Carry on, folks - until next time!


End file.
